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Roped muscular arms looped tightly around her waist. She gasped out, a mixture of terror and outrage, her fingers snarling in desperation around the harness.
But to no avail. He plucked her up with ease, lifting her so high that her feet were far above the ground. Under the sheer force of the movement her grip loosened on the harness, her fingers flailing in the air as he slammed her against his solid frame to carry her away.
The jolting impact of the man’s body against her own sent shock waves coursing through her. Her face was on a level with his, his chest was hard up against her soft breasts, her hips were bouncing intimately against his muscle-bound thighs. A wild, hectic colour flooded her pale skin; she wanted to die in shame. Never, never had she been so close to a man!
MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now, with a family to look after, writing has become her passion … A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Contents
Cover
Introduction
About the Author
Title Page
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
Chapter Twenty
Extract
Copyright
Chapter One
Wiltshire, England—October 1265
‘Thank you, Ralph, for coming today.’ Alinor of Claverstock turned to the burly lad sitting beside her on the cart seat, a trace of relief in her voice. Despite the faint rays of a weak October sun, she shivered in the chilly morning air, her green eyes vivid, shining, as she threw him a grateful smile.
‘Any excuse to break from ploughing in the stubble, mistress,’ Ralph replied with a quick grin, flicking the reins expertly down the bristled backs of the oxen as they began to slow. His skin was ruddy, sunburnt from his constant work outside. ‘Market day in Knighton is certainly a better option.’
‘I probably could have managed on my own.’ Alinor fixed her eyes on the rutted track ahead before it disappeared around the curve of the next hill, willing the oxen to move slightly faster than their current snail’s pace. Leaning back against the wooden seat, she adjusted her slight frame to the incline of the cart as it lumbered to the valley bottom. ‘I feel guilty for taking you away from your other duties; there’s so much to do at the Priory at this time of year.’
Ralph twisted around, his muscled shoulder jogging into the towering pile of grain sacks behind them. ‘I would have liked to have seen you try and shift this lot, mistress. Besides, it’s not right, a lady of your—’
‘We’ve been through this, Ralph.’ Alinor cut off his speech abruptly. ‘The nuns need my help and I’m happy to give it.’ She flicked the uneven hem of her practical gown down over her boots, stained dark from the heavy morning dew. Through her silk hose, which she had forgotten to change in her haste to reach the Priory that morning, the coarse wool dress scratched uncomfortably at her legs. Around her waist, at the point where the knotted girdle pulled in the baggy garment, her skin itched. She glanced up at the sky where the sun was attempting to push through a rolling bank of pale-grey cloud. When the light broke through, the rays were hot, illuminating the mists that rose from the dew-soaked fields, polishing the grass to silver.
‘Well, it’s very good of you, my lady.’ The cart lurched over a large dried-up rut in the track, a sudden, jolting movement, and Ralph frowned as one of the cart’s wheels began to squeak ominously. ‘I knew I should have put some extra grease on that wheel before we left,’ he muttered.
‘Will it slow us up at all?’ Alinor asked quickly, then bit down on her bottom lip, hoping Ralph hadn’t noticed the urgency in her tone. Behave normally, she told herself. No one must suspect anything. Usually, she would take the whole day to attend the market in Knighton, selling the grain before buying any goods that the nuns might need. But today? Today she wanted to return to the Priory as soon as possible. Ralph had no idea what she had done and neither did the nuns. But if no one knew of the girl’s existence, she would be safer. Only Alinor knew where she was hidden. Clasping her knees tightly, she willed her heart to stop racing. The sooner she could help the poor maid leave the country, the better.
‘I’m sure we will reach the market,’ Ralph reassured her, ‘and I’ll fix it while I’m there.’ As they squeaked past a solitary hawthorn, branches thick with red berries, three magpies rose, squawking indignantly, blue-black feathers glossy in the sun, white flashes on dark tails.
Running a finger around the tight curve of her wimple, Alinor tried to loosen the restrictive cloth around her neck and temples. The thick white linen wound about her throat, rising around her face to cover every strand of hair, over which she wore a piece of fawn-coloured linen which served as a veil. Even now, her stepmother’s mocking tone echoed in her skull; Wilhelma simply couldn’t understand why her stepdaughter would choose to wear such sober garments: a plain, undyed linen gown with a mud-coloured veil. But then, Wilhelma failed to even comprehend why she would help the nuns in the first place. Her stepmother would never think of helping anyone, apart from her wonderful son, Eustace. An involuntary shudder crawled down Alinor’s spine; no, she would not think of her stepmother now, of what that woman had wanted to do. Elements of that terrifying night at Claverstock shot through her brain: desperate, splintered images that sent ripples of anxiety through her slight frame. She smoothed out the fabric of her gown across her knees, plucking at a stray thread. Dragging her thoughts to the present, she forced her brain to focus on her task today. The market. Selling the nuns’ grain at a profit. The sisters would need the money to get them through the coming winter; she needed to concentrate on that.
As the sun rose, the air became unseasonably muggy, oppressive. Clouds of midges rose up, dancing above dank wet spots beside the track. Parched leaves, edges curled up and blackened, drifted down from the few trees dotted here and there in the sloping fields that ran down to the path, catching under the cart wheels with a dry rustle. The scant, shifting breeze carried a sharpness, a forerunner of winter.
‘It’s not far now, mistress,’ Ralph said, across the incessant noise of the squeaking wheel. ‘The bridge is around this next bend.’
And then the river was before them, startling, glinting silver. Water rushed, cackling throatily across the stones at the shallow, stone-strewn edges. In the middle, the river was deep and fast-flowing, the surge of current too dangerous for a horse or person to cross safely. A narrow packhorse bridge spanned the gurgling flow with four stone arches, rising steeply at the centre to counter any problems with flooding in winter.
Clusters of brown-winged seeds bunched beneath the yellowing leaves of the sycamores by the river’s edge; a few spun down, circling crazily around her, landing on her shoulders, her lap. ‘Quick, let’s cross it before someone comes the other way!’ Alinor grasped at Ralph’s arm. ‘I want to get to the market before noon.’
‘There’s no one around, mistress,’ Ralph said, pushing back his chestnut hair, the smooth strands flopping across his brow. ‘It’s too early for most folks.’ Pulling on the reins, he guided the oxen towards the flared stone entrance of the bridge, their hooves slipping on the steep ascent of greasy cobbles. He drove the animals along carefully, their heads nodding in unison as he steered them between the stone parapets. As they passed the middle of the bridge, an ominous crack sounded from the squeaking wheel, followed by a sickening sound of crunching wood. The cart tipped violently, the right side dropping down with a significant jolt.
‘Oh!’ Alinor’s arms flailed outwards, instinctively seeking to steady herself as she was thrown to one side. For one horrible moment she thought she would lose her balance and tip straight into the whirling river below, but Ralph grabbed her arm, hauling her back.
‘Damn it!’ he cursed in annoyance, pushing distracted fingers through his hair. ‘Wait here, my lady, and hold the animals while I see what’s happened.’ Squeezing his brawny frame between the stone parapet and the cart, he ducked beneath.
She heard a muffled groan. ‘The axle’s broken,’ Ralph shouted up to her, coming back. ‘I’ll have to fetch some help before we can shift this thing.’
‘Then I’ll come with you,’ Alinor said, shuffling to the edge of the seat.
Ralph held up a hand to forestall her. ‘Probably best if you stay here, my lady.’ He glanced at the voluminous fabric that spilled out from her girdle and draped over the seat, material that would hamper her stride. ‘With the greatest respect, I can move more quickly on my own. Besides, someone needs to stay with the cart; those sacks of grain are worth a lot of money.’
‘A whole winter’s worth,’ Alinor agreed. Ralph’s words made sense.
‘Will you be all right on your own, my lady? I’ll not be gone long. I seem to remember passing a farmstead a couple of fields back.’
‘Of course,’ she replied confidently. ‘I have my dagger—’ she touched the leather scabbard hanging from her plaited waist belt ‘—and no one would ever dream of attacking a lay sister, or at least someone dressed as one!’
Ralph laughed. ‘Not unless they wanted to risk eternal hell and damnation!’ He waved casually and loped off along the way they had come.
Alinor sighed. Wriggling her spine against the cart seat, she allowed the reins to drop beside her. Out of habit, she kneaded her left forearm, trying to alleviate the slight, constant ache that had plagued her since her accident, a small frown crinkling the skin between her finely etched brows. The oxen stood patiently, ears flicking idly at the flies massing above their heads. There were more trees now, along the river: sturdy beech, willow, stubby hawthorn dotted the flat, wide valley. The earlier cloud had dispersed and now the rising sun filtered through the shifting leaf canopy, casting a dappled glow.
A warmth suffused her body. Closing her eyes, she lifted her chin, drinking in the balmy heat across her skin. If only she could forget, for a moment, what had nearly happened. The breathless rush as she had helped the girl into her clothes; the headlong sprint across the moon-soaked land, huddled together in hooded cloaks, hiding behind trees, stealing along ditches like thieves. A long, juddering breath caught in her chest at her own daring, the subterfuge. There was no knowing what her stepmother would do if she discovered the truth of what Alinor had done.
‘Make way, in the name of Prince Edward!’ A harsh, guttural voice barged into her senses. Alinor’s eyes popped open in horror; she jumped to her feet, panic slicing her innards. A group of horsemen were gathered on the other side of the bridge; nay, not horsemen, knights, for they wore helmets and chainmail, their red surcoats emblazoned with three gold lions. The mark of the King, and his son, Prince Edward!
Her chest hollowed out in fear, a debilitating weakness hammering through her knees; she wondered if she would fall. God in Heaven, where had they sprung from? They had approached so quietly, it was as if they had materialised from the very trees, like ghosts, ghastly apparitions!
‘We need to cross this bridge,’ one of the soldiers shouted up at her, hoarse tones emanating from a shiny metal helmet. ‘Move the cart now, Sister!’
Sister. Of course, from her garments they believed her to be a nun. Alinor stared at them, terrified, trying to find the words, the courage to address this formidable group. A dozen men or so, chainmail hauberks glinting and winking in the sunlight, lower legs encased in riveted plate armour. They were armed: swords, pikes, maces and shields; the lead knight carried the King’s red banner on a pennant. Her mouth was parched, fear cleaving her tongue to the roof of her mouth. What would they do to her, these soldiers of the King? ‘I...I cannot,’ she managed to say, but her voice emerged as a pathetic whimper and they failed to hear.
‘Speak up, woman,’ the lead soldier bawled at her, leaning forward in his saddle as if to hear her more clearly. ‘What ails you? Why do you not move?’ He threw a comment back to his companions; they laughed in response.
Alinor flushed; no doubt the soldier’s words had been derogatory. She cleared her throat, summoning up the power in her lungs, the nerve to speak more loudly. What was the matter with her? It was not like her to be intimidated by knights; she came from a high-ranking family who had entertained the King and Queen and their entourage on several occasions. She had a perfect right to be here, on this bridge, as much as the next man, and anyone could have an accident, couldn’t they?
‘The axle is broken on the cart,’ she shouted out in loud, clear tones, tilting up her nose in the hope of projecting an air of superiority. ‘The servant has gone to fetch help; he should be back very soon.’ Beneath the folds of her gown, she crossed her fingers.
‘Then it seems we have a problem,’ the soldier replied, throwing his thick-set body down from his horse and moving towards the bridge. ‘Prince Edward rides not far behind me and expects us, as his outriders, to clear the way for him. He’s in a hurry, Sister, and does not like to be held up.’
Standing on the cart, Alinor shrugged her shoulders, her arms spread wide, palms upturned. ‘What can I do?’ she replied. ‘I cannot move the cart by myself...’
‘Then we’ll have to help you.’ The soldier strutted boldly towards her. ‘First, we need to lighten the load.’
‘The sacks are quite heavy to carry,’ Alinor explained, ‘but two of you would manage...’ Her mind tacked back to earlier in the day, her breath fanning out like a veil in the pre-dawn air, when Ralph and his younger brothers had loaded the cart. It had taken two of them to lift each sack...
‘I have no intention of carrying your measly sacks anywhere,’ the soldier replied, his voice muffled by the helmet as he squeezed past the oxen to the back of the cart. Drawing his short sword, he slashed violently at the first sack, cutting the coarse hessian from top to bottom. Grain poured out, spilling over the side of the bridge, down, down into the rushing water. A whole field’s worth of harvest.
‘What are you doing?’ Alinor squawked at him in disbelief. Anger rose in her gullet, mirroring her fear. Panic rattled through her veins, but she had to overcome it, to fight it, for how could she let this thug, this ruffian, behave in such a way? How could she allow the nuns’ hard work to disappear beneath a river’s churning current? ‘How dare you!’ As the sack emptied, the soldier tossed the flapping remnants of the sack over the stone parapet and moved on to the next sack. At this rate, the nuns would lose everything!
‘Come on, men!’ The soldier ignored her furious words, curving one heavy arm upwards to summon his companions, as he moved along methodically. ‘Come and help me!’
‘No! No! Stop! You cannot do this! You have no right!’ Alinor yelled at the soldier, jumping down from the cart. Grabbing at the soldier’s arm, she pulled down hard, preventing him from slashing into the next sack. Pausing, he twisted around, holding the flashing blade up to her face, foetid breath wafting over her from the crossed slit in his helmet.
‘Take care, Sister,’ he warned. ‘I’m not in the habit of killing innocent nuns, but I’m sure I can make an exception on this occasion if you continue to goad me.’
The knife-point quivered beneath her nose. Silver in the sunlight, glinting, dangerous. How easy it would be to run away now, to acknowledge the fear that dragged at her belly, the fear that sapped the ligaments in her knees. She could simply turn tail now and hear the soldiers’ taunting laughter pursue her as she stumbled away. But it wasn’t in her nature to give up, to give in to people like this. They were bullies, pure and simple, and she wasn’t about to let them get away with this.
‘You don’t scare me,’ Alinor scoffed back at him. ‘I’m sure your Prince would have something to say if he knew what you’re doing!’ Her fingers scrabbled for her scabbard, fumbling for her dagger within the leather holder.
Within the shadowed confines of his helmet, the man scowled. ‘The only thing the Prince is thinking about is beating the rebel Simon de Montfort and he doesn’t care how he goes about it,’ the soldier hissed. ‘He wouldn’t give a fig for the likes of you. So step back, Sister, and let me do my work.’
He turned away again, about to cut into the next sack.
Rage boiled through Alinor’s veins, hot, surging; drawing her knife, she slashed down on to the soldier’s bare hand, cutting into his palm. He cried out in pain, blood spurting from his callused flesh; her attack was so unexpected that he dropped his short sword in surprise, blade clattering to the stone cobbles below. In a trice, she had kicked it away, sending the weapon spinning into the gloom beneath the cart. In the same moment, she saw her opportunity: the jewelled helm of the soldier’s long sword gleaming out from his scabbard. Her nerves jittered—was she really about to do this? There was no time to think about it. With both hands on the sword helm, she wrenched upwards, withdrawing the shining metal blade easily, and stepped back so the tip waggled dangerously towards his throat. She had helped her father on with his chainmail enough times to know where the weak spots were, where a blade could pierce the skin.
‘Step away from the cart!’ Alinor fought to contain the wobble in her voice. Fear washed her mind blank. How was this going to go? She had stopped him from ruining the sacks, but now what? Glancing behind quickly, she checked that no other soldier was creeping up behind her. But the rest of the group remained gathered beyond the bridge, pointing and laughing at their unfortunate comrade. They obviously didn’t think he needed any help, fully believing he would best her in the end; it was purely a matter of time. Come on, Alinor, think, she told herself firmly. Use your wits! Her slim fingers wound around the cross that hung across her bosom.
Cradling his bleeding hand, the soldier’s eyes blazed with annoyance through the slit in his helmet. ‘Give up now, Sister, and give me my sword back; there’s another dozen soldiers back there for you to fight before this is over. Your prayers are meaningless—your God cannot help you now.’
And there she had it: the dart of an idea. Let them think that she called on darker beings to help her now. Her pearl-studded cross hung down on a rope of thin wooden beads; she held it out and aloft, narrowing her eyes in what she hoped was a suitably threatening expression. ‘I agree...’ she lowered her voice to a sibilant hiss ‘...but I summon the Devil to help me now.’ She began to murmur in Latin, first softly, then louder and louder; unless he was a proficient Latin scholar, the soldier would have no idea that her words were complete nonsense. It was fortunate for her that at the same moment, a large black cloud moved slowly across the sun, dimming the landscape, sending a dusty gust of wind to scurry crisp leaves along the river bank, bouncing wildly. The soldiers fell silent; they watched Alinor, open-mouthed, faces greying as they realised what she was doing. As she spoke, she jabbed the sword in the man’s direction and slowly, slowly he backed away, around the other side of the cart, before staggering back to the other soldiers.
‘She’s put a curse on me!’ Alinor heard the soldier shout, pointing back to her. Her wrists ached from holding up the heavy sword, but she refused to let it drop. A curious bubble of laughter, or was it hysteria, welled up within her; she clamped down on it, hard. These men couldn’t see her laugh. Let them continue to think I’m giving them the evil eye, she thought. I’m safe here on this bridge as long as they believe that and so is the grain. But she lifted her eyes briefly skywards and prayed for Ralph’s swift return.
Suddenly, she felt very, very alone.
* * *
‘Where in the Devil’s name are we?’ Edward, son of Henry III of England, thrashed petulantly at the arching brambles with his sword, eventually pushing his horse into a small, shadowed clearing in the beech forest. He pulled his helmet off with an angry movement; sparse strands of pale blond poked out from around the edges of his chainmail hood. ‘And where are my outriders? I thought they were scarcely half a mile ahead? They’re supposed to come back and lead us through!’ He scowled, thin mouth rolling down at the corners like a spoiled three-year-old.
Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens, shrugged his massive shoulders as he reined in his glossy destrier to stop beside Edward’s horse. The three golden lions embroidered across his surcoat gleamed in the sunlight as he drew off his leather gloves and tucked them beneath his saddle front, lifting off his own helmet and pushing back his chainmail hood to reveal a shock of vigorous dark-blond hair. He shook his head roughly, relishing the kiss of balmy air against his hot scalp.
‘Well?’ Edward regarded him irritably, swatting at a fly buzzing lazily around his face.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Guilhem replied, rolling his shoulder forward, trying to relieve the itch beneath his chainmail. ‘Although as we’ve been riding half the night, I suspect they might have taken the opportunity to grab a short rest.’
‘We haven’t got time for a rest!’ Edward spluttered, yanking on the reins as his horse skittered nervously beneath him. ‘There are rumours that de Montfort might have crossed the River Severn; if that is the case, then they’ll be heading east as we speak!’
‘I know. But they are only rumours, Edward. If the men are tired, they’ll be in no position to fight and we’ll lose anyway.’ Guilhem’s blue eyes regarded Edward calmly. He was used to his friend’s moods, the excitable energy that few men could match, the intense, determined stamina on the battlefield.
‘I could fight now,’ Edward muttered sulkily, ‘and so could you.’
Yes, he could fight, Guilhem thought. But then he could always fight, night or day. He never seemed to feel the cold, or to experience hunger or fatigue. Fighting suited him, suited his personality—to be in the fray, driving onwards relentlessly, to have no time to think or feel. It was better that way.
‘We both could, Edward, but I suspect we’re in the minority. The soldiers need to rest.’ He flicked his head around to watch the remainder of the men gather behind them at the edge of the clearing; knights on horseback stretched back in single file into the shadows of the forest, Edward’s royalist army. Exhaustion etched their faces. ‘I suggest you take the men to your mother’s palace at Knighton and beg some board and lodging. The rebels can wait.’ He tilted his head on one side. ‘What do you say?’