Snatching her fingers away, she tried to dampen her bubbling emotions. ‘How are you planning to get de Montfort out of there?’ She eyed the tents doubtfully. There must have been above a hundred, each sleeping about twenty soldiers.
Slowing his pace so that he could walk alongside her, Guilhem shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure at the moment,’ he replied casually. ‘I’ll work it out once I’m in there, facing him.’
Alinor peered at him, incredulous. ‘Is that what you normally do?’ He seemed so calm about the whole thing, so casual. Surely all battles and campaigns had to be planned in advance, with weeks of preparation.
‘Yes.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I think better on my feet.’
‘And what do I do, Guilhem, while you “think on your feet”?’
‘Stay back behind me.’ He scowled, as if suddenly remembering that she would be there, too. ‘Stay back and stay alive, Alinor. That’s all I ask of you.’
Chapter Twenty
Most of the tent flaps were laced securely, braided rope threaded into eyelets and fastened in a criss-cross fashion; the hour was early, and only a few soldiers were awake, peering at Alinor covertly with curious, sideways glances as she and Guilhem moved through the camp. Her heart thudded with trepidation; she was not afraid for herself, but for the man leading her horse, his tall broad-shouldered figure striding confidently into an enemy camp. What would these soldiers do to him if they realised his loyalty to Prince Edward? They would surely slaughter him where he stood! Pressing her toes down in the stirrups to give her extra leverage, she hauled on the reins, halting the forward progress of her horse.
‘Guilhem, this isn’t safe!’ she whispered urgently, leaning forward in the saddle. Her white veil floated around her head, diaphanous, caught in a sift of air.
He turned to her, placing one hand on the palfrey’s neck. His lean fingers, tanned and sinewy, ruffled the animal’s mane. The rough peasant hood, pushed back, emphasised the corded ruggedness of his neck, the muscle-bound hollow of his throat. ‘Alinor, I’ll take care of you, I promise,’ he said. His eyes were the intense colour of a twilight sky, violet-blue.
Worry blossomed across her heart. ‘I meant for you!’ she hissed at him, conscious that they were drawing attention to themselves by stopping. ‘These people will cut your throat if they find out who you are!’
A fleeting smile crossed his face at her concern; his fingers touched her hand, a gesture of reassurance. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, Alinor. No one knows me here.’
His words did little to comfort her, but she allowed the reins to run through her fingers so he could lead her once more. At last the soldier they were following stopped outside one of the tents at the far end of the camp.
‘Your father, the Earl of Claverstock, is in here. Shall I wake him for you?’
Alinor gulped, a heady panic frothing through her veins. This was it. Her father was going to be very surprised to see her and no doubt angry; he had no idea that she knew about him swapping allegiance. And yet, via a peculiar, tricky route, she had been brought to this point by her father’s stubbornness: his insistence that she inherit the estate and that she should marry Eustace. She knew he cared little for her; it was doubtful that he would ever forgive her for what she was about to do.
She fixed the soldier with a hard stare. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied. Perspiration pooled in her armpits.
Guilhem swung her down easily from the horse; pleasure rushed over her as his hands grasped her waist. God, if she carried on like this she would be a snivelling wreck in his presence! Guilhem’s hands dropped away as soon as she was steady and she toed the ground nervously, waiting for the tent flap to push back and her father to appear.
A sharp exchange of words, then curses, emerged from the inner confines of the tent and she smiled tersely. Her father didn’t like to be woken early at the best of times. His face appeared through the tent flap, eyes bloodshot, face pudgy and mottled with sleep, thinning hair stuck out in all directions.
‘Alinor? What in God’s name are you doing here?’ he yelled at her, stepping out into the wet grass. A blanket was wrapped around his spare rangy figure, the creased white hem of his long shirt poking out above bare pallid shins. His gaze raked the slim, diminutive figure of his daughter. ‘How did you even know where I was?’
‘You changed sides, Father. How could you?’
His head rocked back at her accusatory tone. ‘Not that it’s any of your business! Is that what you came here to tell me?’
She tightened her mouth at his customary flare of anger. ‘No, I came to talk to you about Wilhelma.’
His eyes flew to Guilhem, standing silently at her side, huge arms crossed over his chest. ‘And who is this?’ he continued in a dismissive tone as he took in Guilhem’s dishevelled garments. ‘Is he from Claverstock? I don’t recognise him.’
‘I needed an escort, Father. I wasn’t going to travel alone.’
‘You’d better come inside. Can’t stand out here providing entertainment.’ He held back the thick canvas, indicating that Alinor should enter, then followed her in, rudely dropping the flap in front of Guilhem’s nose so he was forced to make his own way inside.
The air inside the tent was heavy, stale, reeking of sour male odours. Three knights, bundled into their cloaks, appeared to be sleeping, stretched out on the rush matting which provided some protection from the damp, lumpy ground.
‘You’d better keep your voices down,’ her father said. ‘Like me, the others don’t like to be woken too early.’
‘De Montfort?’ Alinor whispered, desperate to get the worst part of this whole business over with. Was one of those sleeping figures the main enemy of the King and Prince Edward? She hovered by the tent opening, conscious that Guilhem stood very, very close to her, his hip nudging hers. She welcomed the contact, drew strength from the big, powerful man at her side.
Her father frowned. It was a curious question for her to ask.
‘No, he sleeps alone. He’s in one of the other tents. Why do you want to know anyway? I thought you came to see me.’
Her mind emptied. Caught in her tense web of anxiety, she couldn’t remember the lie she was about to tell. A boiling weakness sapped the strength in her knees, and she would have fallen forward if Guilhem hadn’t discreetly cupped her elbow, holding her upright. ‘Wh-what?’
‘Are you completely deaf, maid? Why are you here?’
Beyond her father’s shoulder, a flicker of movement snagged Alinor’s gaze. The smallest rustle of fabric. Through the gloom, she peered intently at the sleeping soldiers. One of the men had opened his eyes. To her complete shock, he was staring at Guilhem, hooded eyes sparkling, intense. A knowing look of recognition crossed his stern, battle-hardened face. Panic laced through her, hopping crazily about her tense body. She shuffled closer to Guilhem, positioning herself slightly in front of him, asif to protect him from potential threat, she knew not what.
‘You must excuse me for a moment, Father,’ she blurted out hurriedly. ‘I need a quick word with my manservant outside.’ Ignoring her father’s look of irritation, she spun on her heel, placing the palm against the flat hard muscle of Guilhem’s stomach, pushing him back, out of the tent, out into the fresh, chill air. He resisted slightly, not understanding her actions, and she shoved harder, desperately, not caring what it must look like.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded as they bundled through the opening together.
Her horse stood idly outside the tent, cropping the short grass with a rough, tearing sound. She grabbed the reins and clutched Guilhem’s hand, starting to march towards the exit of the camp with a decisive, fast-paced stride. ‘Walk,’ she gasped at him softly. ‘Don’t protest, don’t look back, just walk with me.’
‘What is it?’ Side by side, the palfrey following behind, they zig-zagged throug
h the tents, Alinor’s skirts swishing briskly through the long grass, the hem soaked dark with dew. ‘We can’t leave now, Alinor,’ he protested, ‘not when we’re so close.’
‘Someone in my father’s tent recognised you,’ she rattled out, her voice wobbling slightly. Her green eyes were huge, concerned. In the distance lay the oak forest where they had left Prince Edward’s knights. If only they could reach that point, reach the safe cover of the trees before anyone came after them.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
Behind them, there was a shout. Then another. Then, as if from nowhere, an arrow flew past Alinor’s ear, a sickening whine.
‘My God!’ Guilhem bellowed, immediately realising the severity of the situation. ‘We need to run!’ He tightened his grip on Alinor’s hand, his long legs pounding across the tussock-strewn grass, heading for the point at which they had entered the camp: the straggling group of hawthorn. Hampered by the voluminous skirts of her gown, Alinor struggled to match his long stride, air tearing in her lungs. She was fit, but not as fit as Guilhem.
Another arrow whizzed past them. Then another.
‘Give me the horse!’ Guilhem shouted as they ran side by side. ‘We can make this! Once we are in the trees they will never find us!’
She threw the reins at him and he caught them deftly. Fear gave her energy, firing the muscles in her legs. With one hand available to lift her skirts high, her slippered feet sprung over the sparkling grass, the spongy ground, matching Guilhem’s loping pace. A horrible whirring noise buzzed behind her, too close, then something hard glanced against the back of her head, just above her left ear. She stumbled forward slightly, her eyes watering at the fiery spreading pain, but Guilhem yanked her along again and she knew, for his sake, that she had to go on. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to ignore the pain fanning across her skull.
Panting hard, they reached the shelter of the trees. She had no time to protest as Guilhem released the reins and sent her horse galloping off through the corrugated trunks with a sharp slap to her rump, murmuring tersely that they would ‘fetch her later’ before they tore off into the welcoming shadows. The forest was quiet, motes of sunlight tunnelling down through the branches, pooling patches of light on to the soft, uneven ground. The sounds of shouting, of arrows flying through the air, died away, drifting off into the distance. Pulling Alinor with him, Guilhem wound a torturous route upwards through the snagging undergrowth: a mess of brambles, exposed tree roots sticking out like pale, broken limbs. He climbed steadily up to an outcrop of rock, moving around the outside of the huge stone. Alinor stumbled after him, clambering up the slope, feet sliding on the dry leaves, the loose soil, silk slippers filling with earth and small, sharp stones until at last they reached the top, lungs bursting, clamouring for breath. Releasing Alinor’s hand, Guilhem threw himself down on to the flat top of the rock, crawling low on his hands and knees to the very edge. Despite his size, his body moved with quick, efficient movements, graceful, snaking forward like a cat after its prey. From this point, through the high canopy of the trees, he had an excellent view of the whole valley. De Montfort’s soldiers were nowhere to be seen.
‘It looks like they may have given up on us.’ Rolling over and sitting up, he grinned over at Alinor. Sweat glistened on the carved contours of his face. ‘Let’s hope so.’
Shadowed by the huge oaks, Alinor stood at the point where the solid rock butted up against the forest floor, thick with spent leaves. The lavender colour of her gown shone out incongruously against the drab colours of the woodland, the dull browns and greens. A greying vagueness shimmered around the edges of her eyes; her head felt light, insubstantial.
‘That was some run.’ Guilhem sprung to his feet and came towards her. ‘Thank God you spotted that man when you did. It was probably someone I have fought before...’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘I’m not unknown, being a friend to the Prince. Even so, I didn’t think anyone would recognise me, dressed like this.’ He cupped her shoulders, his blue eyes soft. ‘You saved my life, Alinor, when you realised what was happening, by pulling me out of there when you did.’
‘Guilhem...I...’
‘Oh, God,’ he said suddenly, his chin jerking upwards, staring at a point beyond her shoulder. ‘That’s all we need.’ He squeezed her arm, a gesture of reassurance. ‘Wait here.’
As he moved passed her, Alinor turned around. Her head swam, but she had no inclination to raise her fingers, to assess the damage at the back of her head. She doubted the wound was serious, otherwise she would have passed out by now. Squinting through the trees, her gaze following Guilhem’s broad back, she gasped, fear bolting through her. No, no, not him! A group of knights walked their horses slowly along a faint track, bridles jingling, chainmail flexing like rippling snakeskin. Heading up the twenty-or-so men was Edward, his red surcoat shining out, immaculate. The three golden lions embroidered across his chest gleamed out in the shadowed gloom. Bringing up the rear were the same knights who had escorted them from Claverstock, leading Alinor’s grey palfrey.
Alinor’s heart tightened, compressed with anxiety. Edward would make her go back in there, back into the camp again, back to face her father. Folding her arms across her chest, she strove for balance, fought to keep her breathing steady. Don’t panic, she told herself. Keep control of yourself. The urge to run, to sink back under the cover of the trees, loomed large, but something held her back. Something kept her feet pinned to the spot. She couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Guilhem.
‘Edward.’ Guilhem strode towards the Prince. Edward reached down, clasping Guilhem’s fingers with his chainmail-covered hand.
‘Good God, look at the state of you,’ said Edward, taking in Guilhem’s dishevelled appearance, the grimy peasant clothes, the streaks of dirt across his square-cut chin. The Prince pulled off his helmet, handing it to the soldier next to him, and pushed back his chainmail hood. His wispy hair stuck to his scalp with perspiration.
Guilhem sighed. ‘What are you doing here, Edward? I thought you were going to stay at Claverstock?’
‘I got bored,’ Edward drawled, slapping away a fly buzzing idly around his neck. ‘Sitting around with the ladies all day, throwing meat bones to the dogs, it’s not for me. When you sent that message back that you had found the camp, well, I had to come.’ He scanned the forest, arrogant gaze touching the pale, silent figure of Alinor, before whipping back to Guilhem. ‘Where is he, then, de Montfort? You have got him, haven’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ A streak of angry colour mottled Edward’s gaunt features. ‘Did she give you any trouble? Did the chit give you away?’ He jerked his head towards Alinor.
‘No, nothing like that. Someone recognised me, Edward, and it was Alinor who made me leave, before we even found de Montfort. He is there, though.’
Edward swung himself down from his horse, booted feet sinking down into the soft vegetation, the litter of decaying leaves and moss. ‘Then she can go into the camp again, with someone else. Someone who won’t be recognised.’
Alinor’s knees sagged at his words, muscles like wet rope. Her hand flew out, seeking support, something to clutch at, to hold her upright, but there was nothing, only air. She tottered back a few steps, but managed to keep her balance.
‘No.’
Edward frowned, his pale, red-rimmed eyes searching Guilhem’s hard features. ‘What do you mean, “no”?
‘What I mean, Edward, is that she’s done enough. You can’t blackmail her like this. Now you know where the camp is you have enough resources to go in there and find de Montfort for yourself.’
‘Are you refusing my orders?’
‘Yes.’ Guilhem laced big arms across his chest. ‘Edward, you are my friend and a loyal one at that. What you did for me in France was above and beyond that call of friendship and I s
hall always, always, remember what you did for me. But this? I cannot go along with it. Alinor has done too much already, she needs some rest...’
Edward glared at him, hard. Irritation flickered across his face. Then suddenly, his expression cleared and he threw back his head, roaring with laughter. ‘Oh, my God, man, I never thought I would see this!’ Shaking his head with amusement, with disbelief, he clapped one hand on Guilhem’s shoulder, raising his eyes towards Alinor’s slender figure standing quietly beneath the trees, the sun dappling her blue skirts. Her features were pinched, all colour drained from her skin, so that her face shone out, like a pale moon, from the shadows. ‘What’s the matter with her, anyway?’ Edward said sharply.
Guilhem’s head whipped around. Took in the deathly white of Alinor’s face. He sprung over to her, clasping her shoulders. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s nothing, really.’ She touched the point on her head where the pain was. Her fingers came away, covered with a sticky wetness.
Guilhem stared at her hand covered with blood, dripping from her fingers. ‘Sweet Jesu!’ He spun her around. Blood soaked her veil, weighing down the light, silken fabric. ‘How did this happen?’
‘I’m not certain,’ she replied. Her voice was distant, muffled, as if someone else were saying the words, not her. ‘I think an arrow might have caught the back of my head.’
‘Is she all right?’ Edward strode up. His keen gaze took in the blood-soaked veil, her deathly pallor.
‘No, of course she’s not all right!’ Guilhem roared. Panic ricocheted through him, a cold sliding knife, digging into his heart, brutal, savage. For the first time in his life, he knew fear, pure, undiluted fear, at the thought that this woman, this reckless, courageous woman whom he had come to care for so much, whom he loved, could be hurt so easily. And all because she had taken a risk for him. She could have easily begged her father for help in that tent and exposed his true identity, yet she had not. She had protected him, Guilhem, and in the process, become hurt herself. ‘I must get her to a physician!’ Seizing her fingers, he started pulling her towards the horses.
Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical) Page 24
