by Julia Byrne
THE WARRIOR AND THE DOVE
by
Julia Byrne
Copyright © Merilyn Bourke 2014
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 ONE
Worcestershire, England, in the Year of Our Lord 1265.
Terror slashed through her dreams, ripping her from sleep and plunging her into the blackest pit. She woke gasping for air, her heart pounding in her ears. Blind, sick with panic, she stared into the darkness until at last the nightmare receded and she knew where she was.
She was safe…she was alone. But she wasn’t in her bed where she should have been. She was clear across the room.
Heaven help her, was she now walking in her sleep?
Her hands and knees felt raw. She concentrated on the stinging pain while she forced herself to accept the only possible explanation. She must have leapt from the bed and scrambled across the floor on all fours, scraping soft skin against rough boards until she’d fetched up here in the corner, silent and shaking, huddled in on herself so she wouldn’t be seen or heard.
She fixed her gaze on the candle that burned through the night, a tiny beacon of light against the nightmare that haunted her. Dear God, what if she’d knocked it over in her sleep-walking state? She could have burnt the house down. A disastrous way to repay Martin and Herleve for all they’d done for her. And all for a dream she could never remember.
Slowly she straightened on still trembling legs, using the wall for support until she could make her way back to bed. She crawled under the covers and curled up in a tight ball, trying to restore some warmth to her body. She wanted to bury her face in the bedding and weep, but she bit her lip and blinked back the tears. This couldn’t go on! Somehow she had to remember what had happened to her, never mind that whenever she tried to force memory, terror made her almost physically ill.
But where was she to start, when she couldn’t even remember her own name?
* * *
His mysterious lady was in church again. For the third time this week. Standing across the aisle from him, bracketed securely by her two guardians.
Hugh de Verney stifled a wry smile at himself. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a couple of important tasks to accomplish, and in a short space of time, too. But here he was, also in church—for the third time this week. Just to catch sight of a girl who, though beautiful, seemed too shy and meek to account for this strange attraction, and modest as well if her downcast gaze was any indication. After all, most girls blessed with the delicate face of an angel, dark long-lashed eyes, and a mass of sable hair, would be interested in the effect she was having on the young males in her vicinity. But not her. She looked straight ahead, or down.
There were plenty of interested glances cast at her, he realized. Including his own. But it wasn’t just her beauty that held his gaze. The wary intelligence in her eyes had caught his attention the first time he’d seen her two days ago, walking into the church between her protective attendants. There was something pure and steadfast about her, a sweet, youthful dignity in the way she carried herself, and withal, an air of vulnerability. Unless he was very much mistaken, trouble leaned heavily on those slender shoulders.
He studied the couple who flanked her. They seemed content enough. Both tall and sturdy in build, their clothing plain but of good quality. The man was likely a tradesman of the town, successful at his work; his goodwife one of many attending morning Mass. If they had produced that graceful, slender creature standing between them, he would go hopping all the way to London. Of course, it was always possible that she was the result of a liaison between the woman and a knight or baron. God knows, it happened often enough.
Hugh looked back at the girl and knew that whatever the circumstances of her birth, it was of no importance to him. More vital was finding out who she was and making her his. He could do it, but it would take care. He was in a position of power here, on the King’s business, and he wanted no speculation or gossip about her. Making enquiries of the priest, rather than the town reeve, would be more discreet, and Father Robert might be useful later.
As soon as that thought struck him, Hugh knew he was in trouble. And the source of it didn’t even realize what had happened, was not even aware of him. He wondered that she didn’t feel his gaze. Apart from that moment’s study of her guardians, he hadn’t shifted it in several minutes. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the priest’s voice droning on, but his whole attention, probably regrettably, was on matters far removed from the Mass. He would have said her attention was on more devout subjects if he hadn’t been studying her so closely. As it was, although her head was bent, her entire body was so tense and still she seemed scarcely to breathe. And her small hands were clenched together in a white-knuckled grip, as if exhorting the Almighty in desperate need rather than respectful prayer.
Suddenly, an errant beam of sunlight, darting about irreverently in the world beyond the church, lit the glass window above him, making it glow. The flash of silver light caught her attention. She raised her head, and his breath caught, not at the sweetness of her uplifted face, although that was arresting enough to cause a saint to stumble in his devotions, but at the wonder in her eyes, as if here was the answer to her prayers. Then the expression vanished and she looked desolate…lost.
His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. And, as though finally sensing his presence, she turned her head swiftly so she faced him full-on. Her eyes went wide, although whether in fear or surprise to find him studying her so intently, he couldn’t tell, before she turned quickly away, shifting so she was less visible between her companions.
Well, that reaction wasn’t going to help his cause. He should put her out of his mind and think about the tasks awaiting him this day. But as he watched, she moved again, turning her head just enough to send him a sidelong look. No fleeting glance this, her gaze rested on him for several seconds, and when she looked away again, he realized every muscle in his body was braced, as if she had reached out and touched him.
CHAPTER TWO
“Annith, pass me that old loaf, if you will. The crumbs mixed with butter, herbs, and onions will make a good stuffing for these chickens.” Dame Herleve gave a stir to the mixture in the bowl on her lap.
Annith looked up from the peas she was shelling. They were sitting in the kitchen of the simple town dwelling. The front room served as Martin Fletcher’s workshop, with a small solar off it and the kitchen behind, which opened onto a yard. A second door off the solar opened to a narrow flight of stairs that led to the two bedchambers above.
Lost in her thoughts, it took a moment for Annith to hand over the loaf. “I’m sorry, Herleve. I’m grateful for the loan of my name, of course, but sometimes it takes a moment to realize ’tis me.”
“You may put that down to the bump on your head,” Herleve said, ruthlessly reducing the loaf to crumbs. “As for the name, ’tis yours while there’s need and welcome you are to it.” With a quick sidelong glance at Annith, she added as though in afterthought, “Did you note that young soldier in church this morning?”
Annith bent her head over the peas again. Thank the saints removing them from their pods was a simple task, because she had been thinking of the
man who’d been watching her so closely. In truth, for some reason, she could not put him out of her mind.
Tall, raven-haired, broad-shouldered and powerful, though not over-muscled as were some men who made their living wielding broadsword and battle-axe. His was the lean, lithe power of the wolf. A warrior, certainly, but a hunter also, who would move through forest and wood with scarcely a sound to mark his passing. It had been too dim in the church to make out the color of his eyes, but the intensity of his gaze had sent a strange tingle through her. Fear, sharp but mercifully brief, followed closely by an unfamiliar…excitement. Aye, that was the word to describe the thrill that had shot through her when their eyes met.
Shaking off an echo of the odd feeling, she realized Herleve was still awaiting an answer. “I noticed him,” she said with a slight smile. “But if I ever knew him I don’t remember it. Besides, he would have approached me, surely, had we known each other.”
“Hmm. He’s a deep one, mark my words. A man who keeps his own counsel until he knows what’s—”
A frantic rapping on the outer door interrupted her, and a woman called, “Martin? Herleve? Are you there?”
Recognizing the voice of their elderly neighbor, Annith relaxed the sudden tension in her shoulders. At a nod from Herleve, who was busy stuffing her chickens, she rose and walked through to the shop to open the door. “Mistress Purcell,” she said in greeting. “Come in.”
“Thank you, Annith.” Dame Eveta Purcell, somewhat out of breath, her face flushed beneath her wimple, hurried through the shop and into the kitchen. “Herleve! Thank the Lord you’re at home. I must go to the castle, but Edric is off on some errand—not that he would be any help for he swears he’ll have nothing to do with the matter anyway.”
“If we could make sense of that gabble, Eveta, ’twould be better for all of us,” stated Herleve in bracing tones. “Sit down and tell us what ails you.”
“Haven’t you heard?” demanded Dame Eveta, remaining on her feet. “They’re crying it through the town. The King’s soldiers have brought in the captives, many of them wounded, from among the boys who marched with my lord Corbel to take the castle. Anyone with kin among them can claim them and hear judgment, they say, with no reprisal to themselves. I must see if Adam is there and bring him home. Not badly hurt, if we’re so blessed. But to go alone to such a task… I was hoping Martin would accompany me.”
“Martin is away to a customer’s house,” Herleve said. “But—”
Before she could think better of it, Annith heard herself speak. “I will accompany you, Mistress Purcell, if you will have me as escort.”
Dame Eveta turned a thankful face to her. “Gladly, my dear. If Herleve will permit it.”
Annith exchanged a glance with Herleve. They had put it about that Annith was a distant cousin of Martin’s, and had come for a visit. But Herleve knew she had no real authority over the girl in her care. Annith might not remember anything prior to a few days ago, but Herleve knew quality when she saw it. Her guest was no tradesman’s niece, or any other female relative for that matter.
“Do you think it wise, my dove? You don’t know the town,” she added for Eveta’s benefit.
“’Tis time I learned, then,” Annith replied. “And Dame Eveta will be with me.”
Eveta nodded and turned to hurry away through the shop. “I’ll fetch my mantle and meet you outside,” she called back. The outer door slammed after her.
“And if you meet one who knows you?” Herleve asked, now free to voice her real concern. “Unless you are without family, without friends even, which is unlikely, surely someone is searching for you.”
At the possibility that she might be found, fear wrapped icy fingers around Annith’s throat. Nausea rose behind it, but she pressed a hand to her stomach and took a couple of deep breaths. She would not give in to terror when she didn’t even know the cause of it.
“Even if that’s so, I may not be discovered immediately. You said yourself that you and Martin had never seen me before, that my clothes were dusty and stained, as if I’d travelled some distance. And I was in cotte and hose, too, like a boy, although I have no idea why I was wearing such things. Besides,” she added, her voice suddenly husky, “hiding here in the house is availing me naught. My prayers go unanswered. I cannot go on like this.”
“The dreams are worse?” Herleve asked sympathetically.
Annith nodded, blinking back tears. “Herleve, I bless the day you and Martin took me in, but what if danger comes to you because of it? If I’m to be found, better it be outside these walls now that I’ve recovered somewhat.” She touched the back of her head gingerly, feeling for the painful lump that was slowly subsiding. “And mayhap, better for me to face whatever I fear and restore memory.”
“Don’t you worry about Martin and me,” Herleve said stoutly. “You ventured to the church only two days ago, and no one knows precisely when you arrived here. As for going further afield…” She pursed her lips in thought. “I suppose ’tis safe enough now the King’s soldiers have charge of the castle, but remember you are not friendless here, Annith. If anyone accosts you and you doubt their intent, make a fuss, call attention. They may think better of their purpose when witnesses are involved.”
Annith nodded. She forced a reassuring smile, more for her own benefit than Herleve’s, and went out to meet Dame Eveta.
A minute later she was glad she had made the effort. The mild autumn breeze blew away the last of the headache that had plagued her for the past few days, the sun warmed her face, and she was happy to be helping someone. Indeed, it felt strangely familiar, something done often, without thought. Which, for some reason, was a comforting thought in itself.
“I pray the boy you seek will be there, Mistress Purcell,” she said, as they passed through the south gate and walked down to the stone bridge that crossed the Severn. Beyond the bridge, a short walk along the road to Evesham and to their right stood the castle, its drawbridge down. A middle-aged woman was passing through the gateway as Annith spoke.
Eveta shook her head and indicated the woman. “That it has come to this,” she mourned. “Respectable townsfolk retrieving their boys from God knows what fate. But I don’t blame Adam for his foolishness. ’Tis Edric’s fault from start to finish. Never a good word to the boy, a cuff on the ear for little reason, keeping him short of money—” She stopped and gave an indignant snort. “Short! What am I saying? Not a half-penny did he give him but that Adam had to beg and plead for it. And he apprenticed to his father from the time he was twelve.”
“But what caused such treatment?” Annith asked, shocked.
“’Tis sorry I am to say it about a son of mine, but Edric puts money above all, even his own family, though I know he cares for Adam in his way. But despite that he was too mean to take on an apprentice. Let the boy earn his keep, he said, which Adam was willing to do. But to be denied his rightful wage? That he could no longer bear. And if his death comes of it, I’ll make Edric’s life so miserable he’ll wish ’twas me in the grave.”
“Oh, do not say so, Dame Eveta. See, we’re here. Pray that all will be well.”
They crossed the drawbridge and, after a word with a helpful porter, passed into the bailey. Annith shivered as the shadows cast by the high walls engulfed them. There were few people about—a groom inspecting the hooves of a huge black destrier, a man in clerical garb crossing the bailey. In the deep shade of one corner, half-shielded from view by a wagon, shrouded forms were laid out.
“Holy Mother, have some died already?” Eveta turned pale and crossed herself. She hesitated, uncertain whether or not to search there first, but Annith took the old woman’s arm and turned her toward the doorway to the undercroft, where they had been directed.
“We’ll look for your Adam among the living,” she murmured. “No need to distress yourself before we know more. Come.”
* * *
“I still say we need more soldiers on the walls, my lord. Look at those two, strolling a
round as if they’re at a fair.”
Hugh glanced up at the men pacing the walls. It wasn’t an arduous duty. Whenever they passed each other they would halt for a quick word and a glance down at the bailey to ensure all was quiet, before resuming their patrol. They appeared relaxed, but he knew they were alert for trouble.
“That’s right,” the sergeant growled, watching them. “Stop and have a chat. ’Tis no way to keep watch, sir.”
Hugh stifled a sigh. The sergeant was conscientious in the performance of his duties, but he wasn’t the sharpest sword in the armory. “Sergeant, we don’t wish to terrify the entire town of Crofton-on-Severn. Your men are of more use driving stray rebels out of the forest. The families of those young idiots in the undercroft are not going to collect them if they fear they’ll be fired on from the ramparts. Ask fitzWalter here.”
The stocky, fair-haired man standing with them at the top of the outer stairs giving access to the hall, grinned. “’Tis not as if all the townsmen took up arms with Corbel against the King, Sergeant. I don’t say we couldn’t have hanged a few more along with him, instead of slapping them with fines and imprisonments, but I’m not the one in charge.”
Hugh sent him a sardonic look. “My thanks, Ranulf. Why not undermine my authority while you’re at it.”
The sergeant looked doubtfully from Hugh to fitzWalter. However, since he owed his position to the fact that the former castellan was one of those slapped with a fine and imprisonment, he prudently decided against further argument.
“Well, Maurice Corbel was the only trouble-maker in these parts,” he said with a resigned shrug. “And we’ve accounted for most of his men. The rest will have scurried off to their villages to lie low.”
“And long may they remain there,” fitzWalter said. “I, for one, need a rest before I face another rabble wielding pitchforks and shovels. Nearly scurried off, myself.”
