by June Francis
He looked up in the gathering gloom and could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw Cicely. He watched as she brought a leg over the horse’s neck and slid to the ground, only for her legs to buckle. He swore and hurried over to her and dragged her upright.
‘Can’t you ever do as you’re told?’ he rasped, shaking her.
‘I had to come,’ she said in a tremulous voice, clinging to his arm. ‘I told you once before I’d had enough of waiting.’
He ran a hand over his bloodied and dirty face. ‘I have seen no sign of Diccon. I presume Edward’s forces did not arrive, so there was no need for you to worry about him.’
‘I wasn’t worrying about him. It was you I was concerned about.’
For a moment they stared at each other and then he smiled. ‘The battle is as good as over and I deem the Lancastrians are the victors on this field. Shall we go?’
‘You mean it really is over? I can stop worrying?’ There was a tremor in her voice.
‘I certainly hope so.’ A sense of euphoria overrode the common emotions he always felt after a fight, but he kept it under control and said in a mild tone, ‘Let’s away from here. The stallion ap Rowan gave me is dead and I grieve its passing, but he fought well and no doubt saved my life many a time.’ Mackillin wiped his bloodstained sword on the grass and then put it away. ‘You disobeyed me. I don’t know what Master ap Rowan and your brothers are going to say about this. I can only hope for the sake of the future we might have that none of them believes I encouraged you.’
She was tempted to ask, What future is that? But at that moment the ancient shrilled, ‘Help me down and then you can be gone.’
They both looked up at the old person who held out her arms. Mackillin rolled his eyes in Cicely’s direction before obeying the crone’s summons and lifting her from the horse. She shooed them away and bent over the man on the ground.
Cicely hesitated. ‘I should help her.’
Mackillin drew her away and growled, ‘No. You have done enough. This time obey me, Cissie.’
After the scenes of suffering she had seen that day, she did as he said. As he helped her up on to the horse, she winced.
‘What is it?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘It’s but a graze,’ she answered, biting her lip.
He glowered at her. ‘I knew you shouldn’t have come. I’ll have a look at it as soon as I can.’
He retrieved his saddlebags and threw them over the horse and climbed up behind her. He took the reins in one hand and held her with the other. She leaned back against the wall of his chest with a great sigh of relief as he urged the horse into a walk. The battle was over and she thanked God and St George that they had both survived.
Chapter Eleven
Cicely could see flaming torches flickering ahead in the gloom.
‘Did any of the men from Killin join the fight?’ she asked.
‘I found a small number and they told me that others of their company had deserted a day or so ago.’ She sensed rather than saw his frown.
‘You hold yourself responsible for not being with them?’
‘Aye. Although that’s not to say they would have pledged me their loyalty,’ replied Mackillin frankly. ‘Most do not know me well and my half-brothers would not have painted me in bright colours.’
‘So you’re likely to have trouble with them as well as your enemies when you return to Scotland?’ asked Cicely.
He shrugged. ‘Who is to say? There are men here who will vouch for my bravery—but let us forget such matters for now.’ His arm tightened about her waist and he breathed in her familiar scent; he felt warmed by the feel of the softness of her body against his and exulted that they were together. In that moment he wanted only to find a place where they could be alone, rest and enjoy each other’s company. He shut an ear to that inner voice that warned that temptation lay in that direction. After such an arduous day that had brought victory to the Lancastrians, he felt a need to celebrate in some way.
They came to the next field where the tents were pitched. In the short time since Cicely had traversed the ground it was now filling with men. In the torchlight she noticed a woman and a small boy surrounded by several men in plate armour. The lady was of stately bearing and wore a gold circlet on her head.
‘She must be the queen,’ whispered Cicely, glancing up into Mackillin’s weary face.
Almost as if she had heard her words, the lady looked in their direction and there was a questioning expression on her face. Suddenly Cicely remembered the garb she wore and instantly sat up and ensured that there was now a gap between her body and that of Mackillin. She felt him withdraw his arm and knew that he had made the same error of forgetting she was dressed in the guise of a youth. It would not do for her Majesty to guess that she was a woman.
The queen said something in an aside in French to one of the men beside her and he turned and addressed Mackillin. ‘Who are you and who is this youth?’
He thought swiftly and answered in French. ‘I am Lord Rory Mackillin and this is my young cousin. He has fought bravely and was wounded in the fight. I need lodgings where I can tend his wound.’
The queen’s face lit up. ‘You speak my language well, Lord Mackillin. Dismount, I would speak with you.’
He obeyed and bowed before her. ‘It is an honour to meet your Majesty.’
She inclined her head. ‘I have heard of you. Your kinsman, our Earl of Northumberland, spoke of your having spent time in Angers at my father’s court.’
Mackillin straightened and smiled. ‘Aye. We conversed on all manner of subjects. He is a noble ruler.’
Her hard eyes gleamed. ‘We must talk more of this. In the meantime lodgings will be found for you in the town. It is possible I can make use of you.’
Mackillin did not like the sound of that, but said politely, ‘I am at your service.’
‘C’ est bien!’ She offered him her hand to kiss. He touched it lightly with his lips and then stepped back and bowed again. She turned to those about her and spoke in fractured English. ‘Lord Mackillin will be treated with all courtesy. Lodgings must be found for him and his kinsman in the town.’
She turned away as a man in plate armour came hurrying towards her. He bowed and, given leave to speak, said in English, ‘Majesty, Warwick has fled and we have found the king.’
Queen Margaret’s hand fluttered to her breast and a delighted smile lit her face. ‘Take us to him.’
The queen, her son and her retinue hurried away, leaving only one man behind. He turned to his lordship and said, ‘Meet me at the entrance to the abbey in an hour’s time and I will tell you where your lodgings will be situated. There will be plenty of room in the town now the Yorkist traitors have fled.’ He did not wait for a response from Mackillin, but went rushing after the queen.
‘So the king is recovered and his army is victorious, so we can go home on the morrow,’ said Cicely, relieved.
Mackillin frowned. ‘The queen thinks she can make use of me. I might have to stay a little longer.’
Cicely felt a sinking at her heart, remembering their conversation at Merebury about the danger of involving oneself in the affairs of royalty. ‘So that is what she said when the pair of you spoke in French?’
He nodded and took hold of the horse’s reins and stroked its nose. ‘I told her that you were my cousin and had fought bravely in the battle.’
‘A male cousin, I presume?’ she muttered, longing to rid herself of male attire, now it had served its purpose, but now she could see no way of doing so until she left the town. The thought appalled her.
‘I left it to her to make that presumption,’ he said softly.
‘Did you give me a name?’ Her tone was tart. She was beginning to feel light-headed with hunger, thirst and exhaustion; also her wounded arm throbbed.
‘It was not necessary but if you are to continue as a youth then we’ll have to choose one for you.’ He grimaced, moving away from the animal’s head, and
suggested that she move into pillion position.
She raised her eyebrows and shifted backwards on the horse. ‘Perhaps I will take my father’s name,’ she suggested.
Mackillin thought about that as he climbed into the saddle. ‘I’m sure he’d be proud of your doing so. I have wondered why neither of the twins were named for him.’
‘There was a boy born before me called Nathaniel, but he died in infancy.’ She gripped the back of his belt as he set the horse in motion.
‘Well, Nathaniel,’ murmured Mackillin, ‘as long as no one suspects your true identity, you should escape notice if those enemies Husthwaite mentioned are in the vicinity. But perhaps I should send a courier to Owain ap Rowan to inform him that you are safe and give him news of the battle.’
She felt a sinking of her spirits, knowing that Owain had every right to be furious with her. ‘You will send one of your men?’
‘Aye.’ He wondered if she should accompany him but decided to ignore that voice of common sense, wanting to have her with him for a little while longer before he returned to Scotland and sorted out his affairs. ‘In the meantime let us forget Lancaster and York and think of food and wine and taking our ease,’ said Mackillin, staring ahead through the dusk now they were away from the lights of the torches and riding towards the town.
Cicely had no argument with what he said and her spirits, which had drooped before at the thought of facing Owain, now soared. She, too, wanted to forget the horrors of the day.
Mackillin placed the baggage in the corner of the bedchamber and gazed about him. ‘It’s not as sumptuous as the guest chamber at Milburn Manor, but even so…’
‘They’ve done you proud, my lord,’ said Cicely, gratified but also apprehensive and excited as she gazed about the room that the queen’s administrator had informed them was at his lordship’s disposal. The house was of a decent size but they were having to share it with several knights. Candlelight gleamed on the shining oak of the chest, armoire and that of the bedposts, as well as the surface of the water in an enormous tub—the previous owner of the house must have been an extremely large man. She wondered who had ordered that to be filled and told herself that no wonder her emotions were in turmoil.
‘The task the queen has for you must be one of importance. Perhaps dangerous, even?’ she murmured in an attempt to take her mind off the bed. Were they expected to share that as well?
‘The queen mightn’t have any real purpose in mind,’ said Mackillin, removing clean garments from his saddlebag, as well as the hackbut and the bag of lead shot he had taken from Husthwaite’s saddlebag. ‘She might have been feeling generous because I mentioned talking to her father whilst in France.’
‘I see.’ A thought occurred to Cicely as she, too, removed a change of clothing from her own baggage. ‘You say that the battlefield is not the place for a woman and yet the queen was there amongst her captains.’
‘But she did not take part in the fighting, but watched at a distance. Queen Margaret might be a determined and desperate woman, but she does not take up arms herself. Even so, she is a dangerous woman and I would have you out of here if I suspected your disguise was penetrated. A lass disguised as a lad is not an act that queen or king would countenance, so both of us must needs be careful when in company,’ he warned.
‘Yet there are women who wear breeches when out riding,’ said Cicely with a tilt of the chin. ‘I am certain Father told me that Henry II’s wife, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, did so.’
He said mildly, ‘I wonder what other stories Nat has told you, although I must admit that my mother has done so when necessary.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Cicely, ‘a queen and a lady can escape stricture that a merchant’s daughter will not.’
His face softened as he saw the concern his words had roused. ‘You must not worry. It should be simple enough to slip away from here if need be. For now let’s put aside all thought of danger and think only of taking our ease.’ His gaze shifted to the tub.
Cicely felt the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘You—you will bathe?’
His smile was quizzical. ‘Aye, lass. But I’m much dirtier than you and it will take me longer to get out of this mail shirt than it will for you to remove your garments. At least I don’t have plate armour, which would require Robbie’s help if he was here. You use the water first.’
She murmured her thanks whilst wondering where exactly she should undress. There was no screen behind which to conceal herself. Her gaze took in the damasked blue-and-green curtains that hung around the bed. Perhaps she could hide herself behind them? Yet how foolish was that thought if she was to make use of the tub? What did he expect of her? Could she ask him to turn his back? Her stomach rumbled—she had eaten only a crust that day—and she wondered if she could refuse to bathe and just wash her hands and face in the water. Surely an evening meal would be served soon. Yet how wonderful it would be to slip into the tub and feel the water’s heat soothing her aching body.
Suddenly she remembered that in her saddlebag was a jar of soft soap that she had made the previous autumn. She removed it, glanced at Mackillin and saw with relief that he had his back to her. She placed the jar on one of the drying cloths on a nearby stool and suddenly felt a pain shoot up her arm and gasped.
He turned immediately and said with concern, ‘Is it your arm? Does it hurt? You must allow me to tend it.’ He had removed the old-fashioned chain mail and stood before her in a padded jupon and hose.
She caught the gleam of the silver chain holding her crucifix and was pleased that he wore it next to his skin. ‘I’m all right. It was the other arm that hurt. Probably with using it so much to lift the wounded.’
He frowned. ‘You should not have been performing such tasks. Do you need help to undress? Should I send for a serving woman?’
Cicely promptly said, ‘Now that would be foolish if we are to keep my real identity secret.’
A groan escaped him and he put a hand to his head. ‘How right you are, Cissie. Stupid of me. Then there is only myself to offer you assistance.’ He stared at her.
She was lost for words, but then the warmth in his eyes reassured her somewhat and her trepidation drained away, although she still felt shy at the thought of his seeing her in a state of undress.
‘You permit?’ he asked.
She nodded, her heart increased its beat and she felt slightly breathless as he began to unbutton her surcoat. Perhaps she should try to enjoy the experience of not having to make the effort to undress herself. He eased the garment from her shoulders before relieving her of doublet and shirt. She had to admit it was pleasant to have someone’s assistance when one was feeling weary. She stood before him in her chemise which was tucked into a pair of breeches. He took her left arm and inspected the bloodied graze on the skin and frowned. ‘It looks nasty. You should have had that ancient tend it immediately.’
Cicely said sadly, ‘There were many men in far worse straits than I. The water will clean it and I have a jar of salve in my saddlebag.’
‘Then into the water with you.’ He lifted her off her feet and up into his arms.
She clung to him, aware of his tremendous strength. ‘What are you doing, my lord? Not only do I not wish to be dropped into the water from a great height, but I will dirty it if I go in wearing these breeches.’
‘I admit they are filthy,’ he agreed with a wry smile, lowering her to the floor.
She said awkwardly, ‘Perhaps you’d like to turn your back whilst I…’
‘If that’s what you wish, sweet lass, I will do what you say.’ He turned from her to place another log on the fire and hoped she realised how difficult this situation was for him. He would have liked to have whipped the breeches from her and made love to her.
Swiftly she disposed of the brown woollen breeches, but kept on her chemise and lowered herself into the water after opening the jar of soap. She kept her eyes on his lordship’s back whilst she washed herself. Then she immersed herself up to he
r neck in the warm water and closed her eyes. It was bliss and she felt as if she was drifting on a sea of warm contentment.
There came a splash and it was as if she was being lifted on a wave. A voice whispered against her ear. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to wash your back? If so, I suggest you remove this.’ She was aware of a tug on her chemise and, gasping, roused herself. She clutched a wet fold of the fabric and, forcing her eyes open, saw a pair of muscular thighs and weatherbeaten knees enclosing her hips and legs as if in an embrace. For a moment she could not believe what she was feeling and seeing. Mackillin was in the tub with her! She let out a shriek.
‘Don’t be afeared, lass,’ he said soothingly. ‘You looked so restful that I didn’t want to disturb you, but time is passing and I needed to bathe.’
‘But you are disturbing me,’ she retorted, clinging to her chemise. ‘I will get out and you can have the tub to yourself.’
‘Not just yet,’ said Mackillin. Having given way to his baser instincts, he intended going a little further. Pushing her wet hair out of the way, he tickled the nape of her neck with his tongue.
She found it so delightful that she almost did not demure. ‘You should not do that,’ she murmured.
‘You can’t be comfortable in this wet chemise,’ he said, kissing her ear.
She swallowed. ‘I—I did not mind it until y-you drew my attention to it.’
‘And now?’ he said, turning her head slightly so that he could look into her face and watch her expression.
‘I’m aware that it’s clammy and…’ She lowered her eyes, realising that perhaps those words were encouraging him to believe that she wanted him to remove it.
‘You’d be better rid of it?’ he asked, his eyes twinkling in such a way that she decided to fight him no longer.
‘I’m not answering that,’ she said on a tiny laugh, but released her hold on the fabric.
