Love's Intrigue

by June Francis

All this was in John’s thoughts as he walked the busy streets of the port, where English could be heard as often as French. A few years ago he had read a proclamation in York offering houses and cash subsidies to any merchant or artisan who would go and settle in the English-occupied French ports and towns. He had spoken of it to his father, who had shrugged off the information as of little importance, but John had kept it in mind.

  Louise was also thinking of the past — of a spring day when she had come to Harfleur with her parents. It had been before Marguerite’s birth and her mother’s death of childbed fever. Then the banner of St Denis had flown at the town’s gate, not the cross of St George.

  Patriotic fever heated her blood and she cast a surreptitious glance at the man who walked so close that her shoulder brushed his arm. What was she doing in his company? He was the enemy. How many French people had died here, and at Agincourt, Caen, and more recently at Rouen? What was she thinking of to start to believe that she could trust an Englishman to keep his word? Hadn’t he already deceived her? Maybe he did not plan to help her find Marguerite at all for all his fine words. If she took into consideration all that she knew of him, then he was not a man to be trusted at all! Suddenly she was aware of how little attention he seemed to be paying her, and she slowed her pace to see if he would notice and go on without her. He did not slacken his stride, and she was away in a flash.

  Her sudden swift movement was a mistake because it drew John’s attention. Immediately he was after her. For several minutes it seemed that she would get away, because he experienced difficulty forcing his way through passers-by. Then he shouted, ‘Stop, thief!’ The ploy worked beautifully and Louise had a fold of her cloak seized by a burly citizen and was brought to an abrupt halt. She whirled and lifted her hand to strike, only to be sent sprawling by the man’s clenched fist.

  Louise groaned as she regained consciousness, aware of an aching jaw. John pressed the folded damp cloth to her chin, holding it firmly in place. Her eyes flickered open and she looked up at the shadowy, now familiar face, so close to her own. ‘You really must learn to judge the strength of your opponent better,’ he murmured.

  She realised that she was lying on the bed in the inn and her apprehension surfaced instantly. ‘Why did you chase me? You said I was free to go.’ Simultaneously she tried to sit up and to push his hand away, only to sway like a drunkard.

  ‘Instinct,’ he responded promptly. ‘You ran, I gave chase. There was really no need for any of it. Why did you run?’

  She hesitated, trying to focus on his face. ‘I thought of Harfleur as it was last time I visited it,’ she whispered. ‘Of Caen, of the defeats that your King Henry has inflicted on us.’

  His blue eyes darkened. ‘Ah! I understand. I am to be blamed for King Henry’s aspirations — for all the deaths caused by his ambition to gain the throne of France,’ he rasped. ‘Unjust!’ He rose from the bed and moved away.

  She forced herself up but her head spun with the effort and she had to cling to the bedpost. Her gaze followed him to the shuttered window. ‘But you are guilty of shedding French blood.’

  He turned and looked at her. ‘You admitted to killing an Englishman,’ he said softly. ‘That makes you just as guilty of shedding blood.’

  ‘That was different!’ He had startled her and their gazes caught and clashed. ‘It was my life or his,’ she said forcibly.

  His eyes narrowed and when he spoke it was in that silky tone that made her feel uncomfortable. ‘I suppose many a soldier would say the same.’

  ‘We do not talk of warfare.’ She closed her eyes to shut him out. ‘Of equal matched with equal.’

  ‘I’m not attributing blame.’ His voice sounded nearer; her eyes opened and she saw that he stood at the foot of the bed. ‘I’m sure you did what you had to do. And if every Frenchman did the same then matters would be different in France.’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Surely France is not without plenty of fighting men?’ Again the insidious, silky voice speaking the truth. She was embarrassed and angry.

  ‘You ask me that as if you already know the answer,’ she muttered tersely.

  ‘Perhaps I do.’ His voice was dispassionate. ‘Many of your best men are too busy fighting among themselves. They can’t forgive and forget — unite and defeat the common enemy. Your King Charles is mad and his son, the Dauphin, has not the power to bring the two warring factors together.’

  She stared at him and her eyes suddenly filled with tears of mortification. ‘That must really please you because it makes putting your king on the throne of France easier.’ Her voice was taut.

  He shrugged. ‘Calm yourself, little wildcat. It is of no consequence to me who rules France. All I care about is that Henry’s conquests have made the seas safer for English ships — which is better for trade. I have no stomach for the crazy dreams of the Plantagenets. For years they have wasted good money pursuing a war that in the end they must lose if both countries are to survive.’

  There was a silence and her slender face wore a puzzled frown. ‘Then why did you fight in his army? Who are you? What are you?’

  ‘John Milburn — merchant venturer.’ He came and sat on the bed and she was instantly nervous. His overwhelmingly male presence seemed a threat when experienced so close. She felt his breath warm her cheek and out of the corner of her eye watched his mouth form the words. ‘And who are you? What are you? We have been in each other’s company for days and I do not even know your name.’

  She did not blink as the words tumbled from her lips. ‘Louis Saulnier.’ She inched away from him. ‘My father was a clothier in Caen.’

  ‘A clothier?’ He smiled. ‘We have much in common — Louis.’ His fingers gently squeezed her shoulders. ‘I, too, sell cloth. Once my father only exported wool to Flanders but now we have our own weavers, fullers, shearers and dyers, and King Henry’s taxes are not so exorbitant.’

  ‘My father is no longer a clothier in Caen.’ Her voice was barely audible, and she wriggled beneath his hand.

  ‘I know that.’ His expression clouded as he released her and rose from the bed. ‘Do you think you could eat some supper?’

  She made no reply, only presenting him with her profile. Supper, then bed! Apprehension tensed her stomach and she had an overwhelming desire to burst into tears. Instantly she was ashamed of such weakness. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her voice was firm and she was aware of his scrutiny.

  ‘The company downstairs is rough.’ He moved to the door. ‘I shall have supper brought to us and after that, if you feel up to it, we shall have a game of draughts. It will help pass the time.’

  Louise gave no reply, but her eyes followed him as he left the chamber, noticing that he did not lock her in. For a moment she toyed with the idea of leaving, and she got to her feet and went over to the door, opening it and listening to the babble of voices and singing that came up the stairs. A long breath issued from between her lips. What were the options open to her? To smuggle herself aboard a ship for England with no money and only a few words of the language? To give up her search for her sister and return to the turf and wood hovel in the forest and take up Pierre’s offer to be his woman? Or to stay and hope that Master Milburn would eventually do as he had said and take her to England to find Marguerite? It was obvious that she had no choice. She felt certain that there would be a price to pay for staying.

  *

  John lowered his goblet as Louise neatly took the last of his crowned counters on the board. ‘It seems to me that you have been playing this game much longer than I have.’

  Louise grinned. She had felt more at ease since they had begun the game. ‘I have played since my mother died,’ she said gruffly. ‘My father taught me — and he hated being beaten too.’

  John raised his eyebrows. ‘You are saying that I am a poor loser?’ He looked at her, sitting cross-legged on the bed, for all the world as if she were a youth. ‘Do you toss dice?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nor
do I play cards. Although I wish I could — but my father refused to teach me, saying they were games of chance. Shall we play again?’

  ‘If you wish.’ He drained his goblet, wondering what it had been like for her since her father had died. Had she donned her disguise before or after the storming of Caen? She must have looked vastly different as a maid. Her mouth, for instance, was much too full and soft for a boy’s.

  Louise looked at him as she set up the board, and their glances caught. Suddenly she felt unusually self-conscious in her male attire, and she shifted on the bed, sitting back on her heels. ‘Why do you return to Caen?’ she demanded roughly.

  He did not bother with explanations, only saying, ‘Do you ever give thought to your own position?’

  She gave the board her attention and made her first move. ‘Naturally my sister is my greatest concern,’ she muttered.

  ‘Naturally,’ he said drily. ‘What when you find her? Or haven’t you thought that far ahead?’ He moved his counter to block hers.

  Her brows knit as she stared at the board. ‘We will return to France.’

  ‘To what? Life under the greenwood?’ He covered her hand with his. ‘Hardly the best kind of life for — a girl.’

  She glanced up at him quickly and dragged her fingers free. Her voice went up an octave. ‘That is your king’s fault!’

  ‘Don’t let us start that quarrel again.’ He grimaced as he fingered the scratches on his neck. She said nothing, then after several seconds she moved her counter. John determined to beat her and gave the game all his attention.

  They played for the next couple of hours, and he won five games and she three. The tallow light flickered low, her eyelids drooped, and she pulled her cloak about her because the room grew more chill. Still she set the board for another game even though her jaw ached, and weariness bowed her shoulders, reluctant to call a halt, knowing then that it would be time for bed.

  John stilled her hand ‘Enough. The hour grows late and I would have an early start in the morning.’

  She watched as he placed the counters neatly in their wooden box. Her heart beat jerkily as board and box were placed on the floor. Then he pulled off his boot. ‘You will sleep on the right side.’

  ‘I’ll sleep on the floor,’ she said hurriedly.

  He eased off his other boot and gazed at her from narrowed eyes. ‘It is November, lad, and cold. Let us be sensible about this.’

  She moistened her lips. ‘I have the cloak and I’m accustomed to the ground. This bed is too soft.’

  John bounced on the bed. ‘Straw,’ he murmured. ‘Not so soft — but it’ll do. You’ll sleep on the right and we’ll have no nonsense about the floor.’ Louise shook her head and backed away from him. For a moment she thought he was going to insist then he shrugged. ‘Please yourself. But it is a foolishness on such a frosty night, boy, and you are only just recovering from a chill.’

  Louise made no answer but took a pillow from the bed and dropped it on the wooden floor. She eased off the boots that had belonged to his nephew, and gave her attention to making herself as comfortable as possible as he got into bed in his hose and shirt. Easing herself down on the floor, she pulled the thick woollen cloak about her.

  The tallow light snuffed out suddenly and the darkness was complete. The bed creaked and for a moment she tensed, before curling herself into a ball and dragging a fold of the cloak over her head. She slept.

  Louise woke suddenly, aware of pain in her back, frozen feet and a cold nose. She uncurled with some difficulty and sitting up she hunched up her knees and rubbed her feet. It was still black as pitch in the chamber and her spirits plummeted. How long before dawn? Perhaps several hours and likely the cold would keep her awake until then. Lying down again, she wriggled about to find a comfortable position, dragging the pillow this way and that about the floor, until her head came up against the wooden board of the bed. She stilled and listened intently, but was relieved to hear the steady breathing of the man in the bed. After that she had no idea how long she lay, gradually growing irritable because he slept and she did not — he was warm and comfortable and she was not.

  Slowly she came to a decision and, creeping on her belly round the side of the bed opposite to where he lay, she raised herself up and slid beneath the covers.

  Louise did not instantly become warm and fall asleep, but she lay feeling more snug than on the floor. The bed was comfortable and some of the pain in her back eased. She was not relaxed enough to sleep, aware as she was of John less than a foot away. He filled her mind, his image stamped upon it as clearly as if he stood before her, and suddenly she was picturing him not fully clad but as seen that first time on the ship with a towel wrapped about his waist. She remembered the broad chest with its mat of hair, the strong shoulders and the muscular legs. She had seen men’s naked chests and legs before but now she questioned why the sight of his had caused unfamiliar sensations to race through her. In truth she had viewed several men without their clothes, although she had never looked too long. Instantly she was ashamed of her thoughts and a prayer rose on her lips. Automatically she recited all the prayers she had known since childhood, although she had long questioned why God had allowed such suffering to fall upon her country. Yet in praying she relaxed and fell asleep.

  The second time Louise woke it was to a sense of wellbeing, of warmth, but there was a weight on her breasts and her legs. She froze but the weight did not shift. Did he still sleep? Unable to bear the suspense of not knowing, she tentatively reached out a hand, to encounter his face. Her heart hammered when his nose twitched beneath her touch and her hand stilled. Then, though she knew it was foolish, some inner compulsion caused her fingers to search his features. Still he did not stir and she removed her hand and lay back.

  Now her dilemma was whether to chance waking him by removing his hand from her breast and brushing aside his foot. She tried the foot first, only to have him mutter sleepily and to twist his leg about hers in such a way that she could not free herself without a great deal of manipulation. Her movements only served to bring him closer, so that his relaxed body half covered hers and his bristly chin rested against her throat.

  She remained motionless a while, only her flurried breathing betraying her inner trepidation. A scream began to build up inside her but she did not give it utterance when, after several counts to ten, he still lay in the same slack position. She allowed more time to pass before trying to free herself by wriggling from beneath him. Indistinctly he murmured a woman’s name and his fingers unexpectedly toyed with a button on her doublet; slowly he undid it, and the next button and the next. Then several buttons on her shirt were undone. She held her breath, until she thought that she would burst. She felt powerless to move as his arm went round her beneath the doublet, bringing her closer. His lips brushed her collar-bone, as his fingers stroked the upper curve of her breast, caressed her nipple, and she was amazed at the delightful sensations his touch roused. Her heart beat with heavy strokes as his mouth moved up the line of her throat and lightly kissed her aching jaw. She anticipated his lips covering hers, his body spread over hers, and knew that she should move but seemed paralysed. She began to tremble instead of steeling herself to repulse him. Then suddenly he rolled away from her, freeing a long heavy breath.

  Louise shot out of the bed and on to the floor, taking one of the blankets with her. She huddled herself beneath cloak and blanket, conserving the warmth he had created, despising herself for wanting him to continue with his exploration of her body. After all it was likely that he had thought her this Dorothy he had mentioned. Whoever she was. For a moment the thought of him with this woman teased her thoughts, and she hated him, and herself, anew. She only drifted into sleep when a dull grey light filtered into the room.

  It was the drip, drip of icy water on her face that caused Louise to gasp and rub at her cheek. She forced her eyes open, only to gaze straight into John’s bland blue ones. ‘You sleep heavy, lad,’ he said. ‘Breakfast is here and y
ou must rise.’

  She sat up abruptly and was aware of the buttons undone at her throat. Her hand swiftly pulled the edges of the shirt together. ‘I’m not hungry!’ she said huskily.

  ‘You must still eat.’ He put the wet cloth aside, his gaze still on her face. ‘I don’t want you fainting by the wayside, Louis.’

  ‘I will not faint, m’sieur. You insult me,’ she said haughtily, assuming as much dignity as she could.

  He shrugged. ‘Pardon! I thought that after last night we were definitely on friendlier terms.’

  Her eyelids flew wide. ‘What do you mean, m’sieur?’ she stammered,

  A muscle quivered in his cheek and his eyes were pensive. ‘When we played draughts. You forgot to hate me for a while.’

  There was a silence as they stared at each other. ‘I don’t hate you, m’sieur. I loathe you, as I do all your race,’ she said irritably.

  ‘Ah! We are starting at the beginning again, are we? Foolish boy!’ He sauntered over to the window and gazed out. ‘I had a dream last night.’

  ‘Pardon?’ she was startled into saying.

  He turned and stared at her. ‘I dreamt of my true love. It was a pity to wake and find my bed empty.’ There was a devilish glint in his eyes, and for a moment she wondered. She really did.

  ‘Who is this true love of yours?’

  ‘Who?’ He smiled. ‘We have not met yet, Louis. Have you a sweetheart?’

  Louis reddened. ‘No, m’sieur.’ She hesitated before saying, ‘But last night you spoke a woman’s name in your — sleep.’

  ‘Did I?’ His expression froze. ‘Of course, there have been women in my life.’

  ‘Many?’ she could not resist asking.

  ‘I have travelled much and the world is full of women. But every man dreams of one special one,’ he said quietly. ‘One who would be all things to him — wife, lover, mistress, companion. Do you reckon it is so with women, Louis?’

  There was a silence; she stared at his upright figure lit by the brightening sky outside, and a peculiar sensation darted through her. She swallowed a sudden tightness in her throat to give a husky chuckle. ‘How should I know, M’sieur Milburn? You must have known more women than I have?’