Tamed by the Barbarian

by June Francis

  Martha nodded and bobbed a curtsy in his direction. He raised an eyebrow and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m glad you approve, Mistress Cicely.’

  She blushed and turned to Martha. ‘Is supper ready to be served?’

  ‘Aye, mistress.’

  ‘Then I’ll fetch my brother.’ She folded her sewing and hurried upstairs, needing to escape Mackillin’s charismatic presence for a while.

  Over the meal, Cicely spoke little but she was intensely aware of Mackillin sitting across from her. Their earlier conversation had been fascinating and frightening in equal measure. She appreciated that he had not talked to her in that condescending manner some men adopted when speaking to a woman. He had given her a problem, though—did she wait until Matt returned home as he had suggested, or tell Jack before then what Mackillin had said about their northern kin?

  She pondered the matter on and off for the rest of the evening, as they unpacked some of the items Nat had bought in Europe. Amongst the goods he had purchased on behalf of his regular customers, she discovered a great gift from her father. Tears filled her eyes as she turned the pages of The Book of Hours, a layperson’s book of devotion that Jack told her was Nat’s belated extra birthday present for her. She was tempted to wander over to the fire and delve further into it, but at that moment Mackillin produced a lute from wrappings of thickly woven cloth.

  ‘Who’s that for?’ she asked, clutching her precious book to her breast.

  Jack paused in the act of opening a box containing jars of pepper that had also been purchased in Venice, the city controlling a large part in the market of that commodity. ‘Owain asked Father to have one specially made for Anna in Venice. Gareth accidentally dropped hers down the stairs—unfortunately it was smashed beyond repair.’

  ‘Who are Anna and Gareth?’ asked Mackillin absently, inspecting the inlaid mother-of-pearl patterning on the musical instrument.

  ‘Anna is Owain’s much younger half-sister and Gareth is his son,’ answered Cicely.

  ‘It’s a wonderful gift,’ said Mackillin, carefully plucking a couple of the strings.

  ‘You play?’ asked Cicely, her eyes suddenly alight. ‘Matt plays the guitar and Jack makes a noise on the drums. Sometimes they create sounds that cause me to cover my ears and yet at others—’

  ‘At others,’ interrupted Jack with a grin, ‘you were wont to sing and dance. I remember Father—’ He stopped abruptly and his lips quivered.

  Mackillin placed the lute on a table. ‘I am certain Nat would not want the music in this house to end with his death,’ he said firmly. ‘I remember meeting him in Marseilles a while ago and he would insist on singing after we’d downed enough wine and brandy to float a ship.’

  Cicely and Jack groaned in unison. ‘Father loved music, but he always sang off key,’ said the latter.

  ‘Yet right now I’d give anything to hear him sing,’ said Cicely, a catch in her voice.

  Jack nodded and Mackillin noticed that his eyes were shiny with tears. The youth left the box he’d been unpacking and walked over to the fireplace. Cicely followed him, putting an arm around him as her brother gazed into the fire. Mackillin cursed himself for telling that tale and racked his brains for something to do to take the youth’s mind off his sorrow. Then he remembered the chessboard he had seen set up on a side table and suggested to Jack that they could make a match of it.

  ‘I’ve never played,’ he admitted, looking slightly shamefaced. ‘It was Father and Cissie who enjoyed testing the other’s wits.’

  ‘I could teach you,’ suggested Mackillin.

  Jack hesitated and then nodded.

  Cicely left them to it and sat down and opened The Book of Hours.

  Now the only sounds to be heard were the occasional murmur of voices, the turning of pages, the crackling of the fire and the roar of the wind in the chimney. Even so Cicely found it difficult to keep her mind on the pages of her book. Her attention kept wandering to the table where their guest was instructing her brother. He had surprised her again in more ways than one. He was extremely patient with Jack and she wondered where such a man as he had developed such a gift. Several times she caught him glancing her way and she lowered her eyes instantly. Suppressing her attraction to this man was essential if she was to maintain a distance between them until he left.

  Two days later when Cicely threw back the shutters, the sun poured in. The air might be bitterly cold, but the brightness of the day lifted her spirits. She wanted to be outside, and after washing and dressing, hurried downstairs. On entering the hall, she found Tabitha shovelling ashes from the fire into a pail.

  ‘We’ll be needing those ashes,’ said Mackillin, appearing in the main entrance. ‘I’ve been outside, and the steps and yard where the snow has been cleared are slippery.’

  Cicely’s pulses leapt. ‘Have you measured the deepness of the snow?’ she asked.

  His hazel eyes creased at the corners as his gaze rested on her heart-shaped face. ‘I have been no further than the stables. You have it in mind to go somewhere?’

  Had she? ‘I would like to go to the village. It is but half a mile away. I need to speak to the priest.’ She paused and felt a lump in her throat. ‘I deem he needs to know what has happened to Father as soon as possible so prayers can be said for his soul in church.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘I am willing to attempt a ride that far with you. If the snow proves too deep, then we will return.’ He picked up the pail of ashes.

  Before Cicely could protest at his doing such a menial task, he had gone. She presumed they would break their fast before attempting to reach the village and went with Tabitha to speak to Cook.

  It was just over an hour later that Mackillin and Cicely left the confines of the yard. The surface of the snow was frozen and crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as they picked their way gingerly towards the track of beaten earth. It was only recognisable as such by the stark outline of the leafless trees that grew on one side of it; on the other was a ditch. Cicely noticed that Mackillin had a staff and a coiled rope attached to his saddle and wondered what use he would make of them. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with cold and her breath misted in the icy air; even so she was glad to be out of the house. For extra warmth she had wound a length of thick woollen material over her head and round her neck and her legs were encased in her lamb’s-wool bags beneath her skirts.

  Even Mackillin had made a concession to the freezing weather by wearing a russet felt hat with a rolled-up brim. Neither of them spoke, although each were extremely aware of the other. Mackillin was questioning his reason for offering to accompany her when Tom could have easily done so. It would have been wiser to spend less time in her company, not more. Yet he was glad to have her at his side. She was a delight to look upon and surprisingly she rode astride her mount. He wondered if she had had cause to ride like the wind to escape an enemy at any time or because she enjoyed a good gallop and was more likely to remain in the saddle that way. He thought of last evening and of her reading the book her father had bought her. He mentioned the fact that she was able to read now.

  She glanced at him. ‘Sometimes Father would be away for months on end and Mother never learnt to read or write, so he had the priest teach me along with my brothers. They were skills she seemed unable to grasp, so I kept the housekeeping accounts and she dictated messages to me to send to him.’ She hesitated. ‘I would like to read the gospel in English some day. Father told me once that his grandfather was imprisoned because he had read one of John Wycliffe’s translations. He was a follower of the Lollards. Have you heard of these men?’

  Mackillin nodded. ‘Because they read the gospels in their own tongue, they began to question not only the Church’s interpretation of God’s word, but also the structure of society itself. They stirred up the common people to revolt and were ruthlessly put down at the instigation of the Church.’

  She nodded, thinking he had surprised her again by being so well inf
ormed. ‘Some believe the movement has died out, but others have spoken of it having gone underground.’

  His gaze washed over her face. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Dissatisfaction with the Church’s teaching is growing in some quarters in Europe too. There are men in the Low Countries determined to print copies of the gospels in their own tongue on the new printing presses. I do not doubt they will find a market and sell in their hundreds.’

  Cicely’s eyes widened. ‘Is this possible?’

  ‘Aye. Although, no doubt, the Church will try to prevent it.’

  ‘Then there must be some truth in what the Lollards taught,’ she said firmly, ‘if the Church is so determined to prevent men reading God’s word for themselves.’

  ‘Men doing so could turn the world upside down.’

  She did not say so, but she agreed with him. The Church had such power that it would surely fight any challenge to its authority.

  Mackillin said, ‘Does Master Fletcher share your interest in reading the gospels in English?’

  ‘It is a matter we’ve not touched upon,’ she said in a stilted voice.

  Mackillin frowned. ‘Yet you want to marry him. Do you have a day in mind?’

  She flushed, sensing a criticism of either herself or Diccon in his comment. ‘Eastertide,’ she muttered. ‘If the quarrels between the houses of York and Lancaster do not spoil my plans and Master Husthwaite keeps his nose out of my affairs.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Master Husthwaite! You speak of that lantern-jawed cur who claimed to be your father’s new man of business?’

  ‘The very same! I do not trust him.’

  ‘You show sense. In my experience, it is not unknown for such men to act inappropriately with their clients’ funds. You would do well—’ He broke off as his mount lurched to the right and, steadying it with a firm hand, he looked down to where the wind had blown the snow into a drift that blocked the path. Their conversation was forgotten as he dismounted.

  Cicely watched as he unfastened the straps that held the staff to his saddle. She hazarded a guess that he intended to test the depth of the drift. His booted foot sank into the snow past his knee as he plunged the staff into the snow a few inches in front of him. The staff disappeared from sight and he lost his balance, toppling face down in the snow. She bit back a laugh.

  He lifted his head. ‘Don’t you dare!’

  She giggled.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Stop your cackling, woman. It’s not helpful.’

  ‘I’m not cackling,’ she said indignantly. ‘I was about to dismount and offer you my hand. Now I’ve a good mind to leave you to your fate and ride back. Perhaps someone will find you after the thaw.’

  He groaned. ‘You have to be jesting. I’ve a plan.’

  ‘So have I. I’ll fetch Robbie.’

  ‘And have him laugh his boots off? That’s not kind, Cissie.’

  He had called her Cissie! ‘I don’t see why it isn’t,’ she teased. ‘Laughter is good for the soul.’

  ‘Cissie, if you dare fetch him, I’ll…’

  He had called her Cissie again and his doing so gave her an odd feeling, as if a barrier had been removed. ‘You’ll what?’ she said sweetly. ‘You’re in no position to threaten me, Mackillin.’

  He twisted his head and sighed. ‘That is no way to speak to a lord. You’ll have to help me, but don’t make a move until I say so.’

  For a few moments Cicely had forgotten both that he was a lord and her decision to keep him at a distance because she had so enjoyed mocking him. ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Mackillin. Sing loud when you want my help.’

  She dismounted, waiting for his command. It was obvious that he could not get up unaided. The snow might be hard on the surface, but it was soft underneath. If he tried to push himself up, then his arms would plunge beneath the snow and he would sink deeper into it.

  ‘Take the rope from my saddle and tie one end to the pommel and throw the other end to me where I can reach it.’

  Instantly she realised what his plan was and wasted no time obeying him, reminded of a day on the fells when she had come upon a sheep that had wandered into a mire. She had wanted to help the poor creature, but couldn’t, and it had vanished beneath the surface. Mackillin’s situation was fortunately different because she was able to help him.

  Having fastened the rope to the pommel, she watched Mackillin ease the other end of it round his chest and back and knot it beneath an armpit. He signalled to her to urge his horse along the path the way they had come. She did so and Mackillin spun round slowly and slid along the surface of the snow. In no time at all, he was free of the snowdrift and standing upright. She approached him, reaching out a hand, thinking only to help him unfasten the rope and brush the snow from his clothing.

  But he seized her wrist and drew her towards him, a glint in his green-coppery hued eyes. ‘I should punish you for laughing at me,’ he said in a teasing voice.

  She was breathlessly indignant. ‘I rescued you! I deserve a reward.’

  ‘Then you decide which it is to be.’ Smiling, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers in a tantalising fashion. It was so pleasant that instinctively his arms went round her and he brought her against him so that her head rested in the crook of his shoulder.

  With a heavily beating heart Cicely gazed up at him, knowing she felt his kiss had been no punishment. Perhaps he saw her answer in her eyes and that was why he followed it up with another kiss that was longer, deeper and intensely satisfying. She should have struggled, but she had no desire to resist him. Her lips parted beneath the insistent pressure of his mouth and she felt a further thrill as the tip of his tongue danced along the inside of her lip. It felt so sensual that her own tongue flickered against the side of his. Instantly she was aware of the quiver that passed through him and knew she should pull away, but her insides seemed to be melting like butter on hot bread and she didn’t want the moment to end.

  Then a horse whinnied and attempted to thrust its head between them. Instantly Mackillin released her and his expression was so thunderous that Cicely was shocked and hastily turned away from him and went to her own horse, fumbling at the beast’s accoutrements with shaking hands. She dragged herself up into the saddle. Did he blame her for what had just happened between them? What was happening to her? What were these unfamiliar urges she felt towards him? It had been such fun and satisfying when they had worked together to free him from the snowdrift. If only she and Diccon could share such moments of being in harmony. She needed Mackillin to go far away so that she could concentrate her thoughts on praying for Diccon’s return. She needed inner peace instead of the tumultuous feelings that gripped her now. She must hold steadfast to her decision to keep her distance from Mackillin for the remainder of his stay at Milburn Manor.

  ‘We must go back.’ The harshness in his voice was enough to make her school her features before looking at him.

  ‘It would be foolish to continue,’ she said, sensing the tension in him as he held himself erect in the saddle.

  He clenched his jaw and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. There were words he would have liked to say to her, but it would indeed be folly to speak them. He was shocked that a kiss he had intended as part of the fun they had shared had turned into something far deeper. What did he think he was playing at? He had made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong, knowing it was sensible. He did not expect to reach the heights in his alliance with her, knowing that the love that the poets and minstrels raved about scarcely existed between man and wife. Yet just now he had felt such an explosion of feeling inside him that a certain part of his body still throbbed with arousal. He could not help wondering whether Cicely was attracted to him, as he was to her, against her better judgement. He certainly could not allow it to interfere with his plans. After years of travelling and adventure it was time to settle down and raise a family. For that he needed allies to make his position more secure. For the remainder of his stay he wou
ld make sure not to be alone with Cicely.

  Having made their decisions, both prayed that God would be kind to them and send a thaw.

  Chapter Four

  The sound of rushing water swirling round rocks filled Cicely’s ears. Standing on a boulder, she watched a vole struggle towards the opposite bank of the river and saw a similarity in its plight to her own. For she, too, felt that she was trying to reach firm ground again because the world that she thought secure had collapsed with the death of her father and the news that their northern kin were a threat to her and the twins’ safety.

  ‘What will you do, Mackillin?’ Jack’s voice drew her attention away from her thoughts and the tiny creature’s plight. ‘The water level is dangerously high. Will you delay your departure until Matt returns? He’ll be able to tell you the state of the rivers and bridges on the road to York and perhaps Kingston-on-Hull, too.’

  Cicely gazed towards where her brother and the Scots lord were inspecting the bridge and held her breath as she waited for Mackillin’s reply. Since she had first heard the rain two nights ago, differing emotions had warred inside her. Now she told herself, not for the first time, that she must put him out of her mind and concentrate on getting in touch with Diccon.

  Mackillin’s eyes met hers, so that when he responded to Jack’s words it felt as if he was speaking directly to her. ‘When I parted from my master mariner, I ordered him to return for me and Robbie within the week. We are already late for our rendezvous. Of course, it’s possible the weather has sunk my ship or at the least delayed it putting into Kingston-on-Hull as arranged. In that case I would have to ride north. Whatever has happened, I cannot delay any longer.’

  ‘I so wanted you to meet Matt,’ said Jack, sounding disappointed.

  Cicely said lightly, ‘It’s possible Mackillin might meet our brother on his way to Kingston-on-Hull. He will have no trouble recognising him with you and Matt alike as two ripe berries on a bramble bush.’