The Traitor’s Daughter
by
April Munday
First published in 2013 by April Munday
Copyright © April Munday 2013
The moral right of April Munday to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
To Linda, editor and proof reader extraordinaire. Many thanks.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Southampton, Sunday 4th October 1338
Chapter One
“Ne me tuez pas, je vous en prie,” screamed Alais. The nearer of the two mounted men brought his horse to a halt and gestured to his companion to do the same. Alais’ heart was pounding and she could not draw breath as she looked around. How far could she run before they caught her and killed her? Or worse. Not far. The horses would catch her in seconds. It would take the men on foot slightly longer. Even in these narrow streets she could not lose them. She was lost herself. Shaking with fear, she knew she had little time left. Now she committed her soul to God, hoping she would die bravely. She prayed that these vile Frenchman would not see her fear.
“I have no intention of killing a woman, French or otherwise,” said the taller of the two men eventually, as he slowly walked his horse towards her. He had answered in the same language, his tone indicating amusement. Alais tried to draw a breath, but her lungs were hurting too much. She panted and gasped and her insides twisted. Now she would vomit in front of these Frenchmen and she would be ashamed.
But perhaps they were not French. They did not seem to be in a hurry to kill her as the others had been. No, these men intended to play with her first, then they were going to rape and kill her.
She took a step back and looked around again. Still no escape.
“I am not French,” she gasped out, finally, remembering to speak in her own language.
“Neither am I.” The man had also switched to Norman French, and immense relief swept over her. They must be English and she was safe. “What is a lady doing out in the streets screaming that the French are killing her when she should be at mass?” Alais looked closely at him, drawing deeper breaths. He was well, although plainly, dressed and had obviously been shaved that morning. He did not look like a man who had spent the night crossing the English Sea in a large boat. He seemed amused. Could it be he really had no idea what was happening?
“Running.” Finally able to answer his question she drew another deep breath. “I am running away. The French are invading.” She waved behind her and both men exchanged a worried glance as they seemed to see for the first time the flames from the fires that the French were lighting as they ransacked the town. She became aware now of the screams and shouts that she had managed to block out as she had run from the church. Now the men understood why she was running. They had a short exchange of words that was too quiet for her to catch.
Satisfied that they were English, Alais took a more confident step towards them, then screamed as the tall man drew his sword and urged his horse towards her. At almost the last moment, he swerved aside. Stepping away from him, she turned and watched as he advanced on the two men who had just rounded the corner behind her. It seemed that she was their target and their swords were raised as they made ready to attack her. She was shocked at how close behind her they were. They must have been following her for some distance. They were grinning as they saw that their prey was no longer moving. One man was handing his sword to the other. He must be the one who was to rape her first. The other man had seen the horsemen and fumbled with the sword, which fell into the dust at his feet. The first man turned to berate his companion for his clumsiness. He never even had a chance to know what was happening as the horseman bore down on them and hacked at him even as he started to rise with the sword in his hand. His body hit the ground soundlessly.
Alais wondered why the other mounted man had not moved. Surely the tall man was now in danger from the other Frenchman, who was fighting back. Like her, he had apparently estimated the slim odds of outrunning the mounted man. While the horseman was occupied with the first man, the survivor raised his sword. His movements seemed slow and clumsy as he stepped back to take a swing at his target. Alais had watched knights and soldiers practise many times and she realised that this Frenchman was no trained soldier. He seemed not to understand the need for speed, but would not get a second chance if his first blow failed. He even took the time to get a two-handed grip on his sword. It was the last thing he did. In one continuous, graceful movement, the tall man brought his sword up from the fallen man and through the sword arm of the second man. The arm and the sword fell to ground and the man howled in pain as he stumbled backwards. The mounted man swung himself from his horse and plunged his sword into the chest of the falling man. It had taken seconds. Now she knew there had been no reason for the other man to move; he would only have been in the way.
Alais let out a sob of fear as she wrenched her eyes away from the gory tableau before her. She had tried to focus on the tall man, but she could not avoid seeing the sight of the town burning behind. And above the crackle and the roar of the fires she could hear screams of both people and animals and was afraid that her fear would give way to screams at any moment. She swayed slightly, but caught herself; now was not the time to faint.
Although there could be little doubt, the tall man checked that both Frenchmen were dead. Satisfied, he took their swords from them and cleaned them in their clothes. Then he took out a piece of cloth from the bag hanging from his saddle, wrapped the swords in it and secured them behind his saddle. He tested the binding, then walked towards her, leading his horse. She was reassured by his actions. He appeared to be a competent soldier and he had made sure that these weapons could not be used again by the enemy. More calmly she took another deep breath. She would not look away from the bodies and the blood that was pooling around them; she would not.
“You are right, my lady, they do seem to be invading,” he said, returning to their conversation as if there had been no interruption. She felt his hand at her elbow and knew that she had swayed again. Ignoring her, the tall man looked up at his companion and spoke in English. “You had better take this lady…” he turned back to her.
“Alais,” she said, “Alais de Montjoye.”
The man started and a dark expression crossed his face, then he returned his attention to his companion. “You had better take Lady Alais back to Hill and stay there with her.” Despite the fact that this man had undoubtedly just saved her life, Alais saw no reason to trust him. The French were not the only ones who were treacherous in these dangerous times. The roads were full
of outlaws and criminals and he had not explained why he was not at mass himself. She suspected that he was going to pretend to send her out of the town to some place of safety with his servant. Then he would set upon her and abuse here and steal whatever she had on her and leave her for dead. They were as bad as the French. Worse. At least England was at war with France. She shook herself loose from his grasp and stepped away from him. As if that would save her!
“I am Sir Hugh de Liss,” he announced with a small bow and for a moment, Alais forgot to breathe, then let out the breath she had been holding. There could be no thought of not trusting him now.
He bowed again. His earlier look of amusement had returned. “Yes, come to escort you to Liss. I am sorry we could not have met you under better circumstances.”
Alais had not expected that the heir would be part of her escort; it would make the journey uncomfortable for both of them, but, for now, she was glad that he was here.
Alais shook her head as if to forgive him for making a small social faux pas. Then she remembered and all her fear returned. “My mother. I have not seen her since she pushed me out of the church.” And now the horror of it returned to her, she felt tears prick in her eyes.
“The church?”
“St Michael’s. They came upon us while we were at mass.”
Sir Hugh swore fluently in English. She suspected that he did not mean her to understand, but she had been around the villagers at Leigh enough to be an expert herself. “I shall find Lady Eleanor for you, have no fear of that,” he promised, looking quickly away from her.
Alais could tell that he expected to find her mother dead. He could not look her in the eye. In truth, she also expected her mother to be dead. How could an elderly woman have survived what had happened in the church? She cried out at the memory. Sir Hugh took a step towards her and she held out a hand to stop him.
“Please, my lord, waste no more time with me. Find my mother and save her.”
He took her hand and brought it swiftly to his lips. “I am yours to command.”
She froze as his warm breath brushed the back of her hand, then closed her eyes as he touched his lips to it. His hand, so much larger than hers, was strong and calloused. He had only to tighten his grasp and her hand would be shattered. It was not fear that she felt. It was something unknown, unknowable. She opened her eyes again. He, too, was frozen, but his eyes were on hers. His whole being was concentrated on her eyes. His own were difficult to read. One moment she thought they were blue, the next grey. She saw pity in them. That was understandable since he expected that he would soon be telling her that her mother was dead. There was some fear. That, too, was only to be expected. Who was to say that the next Frenchman he met would not take his life instead of the other way round? There was also a longing, for what, she could not imagine, but it was there. Above all of these, and greater than them all, was something that she could not quite discern. Understanding seemed within her reach when he lifted his head and shook it, as if to dispel whatever had taken hold of him and the earlier mocking expression returned to his face, if not his eyes. Still he held her hand and it seemed natural to her that he should do so. Some of his strength seemed to flow into her and she felt some of her fear ebb away. She smiled then. He returned her smile. She had the impression that he did not smile often.
Even smiling, he was not handsome. His servant was more pleasing to the eye. Slightly shorter than his master he had similar colouring – fair hair and a tanned face Sir Hugh had already demonstrated his bravery and she knew instinctively that he would keep his promise to find her mother. She squeezed his hand in gratitude.
As if finally satisfied, he let go of her hand. Alais felt bereft and reached out to him, but he was already moving away and did not seem to notice.
He turned once more to his companion, “Take her to Hill, Edmund and stay with her until I return. If it looks as if the French are going to get to Hill, then take her to Liss as fast as you can. You are to value her life above your own.” He turned back to face her, “As I do.”
He helped Alais up onto the horse so that she sat astride it in front of the other man, without further ado.
Alais could tell from the tension in Edmund’s body as he held her that he would rather stay and fight the French than look after a woman who was a stranger, but she could also tell from the expression on Sir Hugh’s face that he trusted the servant to do exactly what he had been told. She leaned forward to touch Sir Hugh’s shoulder. “Thank you very much.”
They waited and watched Sir Hugh ride into the town, then Edmund turned his horse round and headed back the way he had come.
Sir Hugh de Liss, oldest surviving son of Sir William de Liss, knight, one-time professional soldier and, lately, heir to his father’s vast estates, rode into the town to retrieve his honour. It seemed that he did not have to go abroad to fight the French and die after all. They were obligingly coming to him. He had been looking forward to fighting for many months, even before war had been declared. Like the rest of the country, he had realised where King Edward’s claim to the French throne must ultimately lead. Having gone to France with his king at the start of the war, he had been disappointed by the lack of combat and had returned to England while Edward gathered support from his allies in the Low Countries. Hugh was not a diplomat. He considered diplomacy a waste of time. If a man had an enemy, he fought him until one was the victor and the other defeated and that was the end. If Edward’s cause was just, and Hugh believed that it was, he would triumph. If it was not, King Philip would be the victor. The king did not need to amass foreign mercenaries; he needed no more than the knowledge of his own righteousness.
Hugh had trained all his life to be a soldier and he wanted to fight. He was realistic about his chances in a battle. He was a good soldier, but even good soldiers sometimes met better soldiers, or were just unlucky. In the north he had seen good soldiers destroyed by Scots cunning or by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having accepted a few years ago that he would probably die fighting the Scots, he had now accepted that it would probably be his fate to die in France. Until today, he had not really taken seriously the possibility of a French invasion. Obviously Edward had discounted it, too, or he would have either remained in England or made sure that his coast was defended. Now Hugh found himself having to think about dying in England. He shook the thought off impatiently. He was a soldier and fighting was what he did. France, Scotland or England, it mattered little. Eager for battle, he had not enjoyed the prospect of being patient and waiting until the proper fighting started in France.
Despite, or perhaps because of his sudden, unlooked for prosperity, he had nothing to live for and many excellent reasons to die. He did not fear death and he did not think it folly to die in the service of his king. That way lay glory.
He had a half-formed suspicion that Edmund only stayed with him to make sure he did not throw his life away foolishly. Edmund was a free man and not bound to Hugh by law or money. He had understood the look that Edmund had given him before they had parted, but Edmund was wrong. Hugh did not seek death; he merely accepted that one day his actions might cause him to die. He was a soldier and even good soldiers could not expect to have long lives in time of war. He had no intention of throwing his life away, however, his death would have to mean something. Although there were some nights when he lay awake considering what he done and wondering why his own life had not been forfeit, he was not yet ready to leave it willingly.
Today, for the first time in many months, it seemed to him that it might be better not to fight and die, but to fight and live. Today he had a purpose beyond killing his enemy. He had promised Lady Alais that he would find her mother and she would not know that he had done so unless he survived to ride back to Hill to give her the news. It must be him who brought her the news. Without him, she would know, eventually, what had happened to Lady Eleanor, but it would take many days before the news reached her. It was impossible that an elderly woman wh
o had been left behind with no one to protect her could survive that long in the destruction that he now saw around him. Although he assumed she was already dead, he desperately wanted to find her alive and take her back to Lady Alais. He wanted her to be grateful to him. And he wanted to see her smile again. He of all people knew that she had precious little to smile about, but she would smile at him if he saved her mother and perhaps he would find redemption in her smile. If Lady Eleanor were already dead, then he would be there to comfort Lady Alais when he gave her the news and she would still be grateful to him for trying to save her mother. She would not know and would never know the responsibility he bore for her death. Lady Alais would cry and he would comfort her until he could coax a smile from her. He thought she might be beautiful when she smiled. It had been hard to tell through the dirt and grime encrusted on her face. She had looked more like a cottar’s woman than a noble’s daughter when she had accosted them, but what spirit she had. She had faced down two mounted and armed men. She had been afraid, terrified, even, but she had not panicked in the face of certain death and that had saved her life. If she had turned and run, she would have run straight into the arms of the Frenchmen pursuing her and they would have killed her before Hugh could have reached her.
Hugh shivered at the thought; he did not like the idea of harm coming to Lady Alais. He was ashamed now that he had scared her by moving against the Frenchmen without warning her or Edmund. In the heat of the moment, action had seemed preferable to speech, but he felt sure that she had understood quickly what was happening. Hugh did not have much time for the company of women. He thought them weak, silly and selfish, with very few exceptions. They were more in need of his protection than anything else. His own wife had only confirmed these beliefs, but Lady Alais, who had definitely needed his protection, had struck him as neither silly, nor weak and definitely not selfish. She had tested him every step of the way before she had allowed Edmund to take her to safety. He wondered what she would have done if she had decided that his intentions were criminal or dishonourable. Undoubtedly it would have involved some pain for him or Edmund; she was not the kind of woman to give in without a fight. It showed her remarkable good sense that she had saved herself when she could not save her mother and her first request had not been for herself, but for Lady Eleanor. She also interested him in a way his wife never had. He had not wanted to give her up to Edmund, but had wanted to be the one take her to safety. For one blinding moment, he had imagined taking her to Hill, going with her into his bedchamber and locking the door behind them, but that was something he could not think about. It was a complication he could not allow. Better, by far, to think of her as a damsel in distress and him as the knight who had rescued her on his way to greater and more glorious deeds. He had never thought of himself as the hero of a tale before and he found the thought did not sit easily with him. He shook his head; he had been too affected by fireside tales. His own sworn duty was to escort Lady Alais to Liss. She could hardly distract him from his task when she was his task. He needed to find some form of protection against her, because he could not admit, even to himself, that he was attracted to his father’s wife.
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