Commanded By The French Duke

‘Come, let us help these soldiers before they bleed to death on our doorstep,’ Maeve ordered the nuns who clustered about her. Her keen gaze whipped about, directing the sisters to the men who needed the most help, making sure her commands were carried out. As Alinor moved to follow out Maeve’s orders, her head lowered, the Prioress caught her arm. ‘Alinor, wait, go into the infirmary and ask one of the novices to help you carry Sister Edith up to the bed on the second floor; I can’t have her downstairs with all these men.’

Alinor nodded gratefully, almost running along the path towards the infirmary, desperate to be out of the immediate vicinity of the soldiers. She grasped at the sturdy handle of the infirmary door, about to push it open.

‘Alinor? Is that your name?

She gripped the iron ring, knuckles frozen.

‘Can I help at all?’

The male voice was low, well-modulated, familiar. Shock scurried through her. He must have overheard her name when Maeve talked to her. She bristled at his use of it, the impertinence; her name sounded like treachery on his lips, a betrayal.

‘Er...no, it’s—it’s quite all right,’ she stuttered out, steadfastly facing the door, breath caught in her throat like a stone.

‘You can turn around, you know,’ the voice said. ‘I know it’s you.’

Sweat pricked her palm. A shudder rippled through her slender frame. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied haughtily. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

He leaned over her. ‘You’re the screaming banshee from yesterday, aren’t you?’ he murmured.

The hot push of breath tickled her linen veil, her ear. So close. Excitement whipped through her veins, a wild heat suffusing her flesh, turning her limbs to pulp. She glowered at the wooden planks of the door, the yellow-green lichen spotting across the weathered oak, resenting the physical response of her body towards him. Defiance ripped through her; she flipped around to face him, to the beautiful savagery of his face. ‘So what if I am? What are you going to do about it?’ Blood thrummed in her ears. She was frightened of him. That was it. Frightened of the trouble these men could cause.

Blue eyes sparkled over her, a generous grin lighting up his sculptured features. His bottom lip held a wide curve, a surprising softness in the hard angle of his jaw. ‘Nothing, as long as you don’t start screaming again. Or steal my sword.’ His eyes drifted over the mark on her cheek. ‘Still hurting?’

‘What do you think?’ she asked truculently, crossing her arms across her chest.

‘You’re remarkably badly behaved for a woman who has taken her vows.’ He ran one thumb along the underside of his sword belt, assessing her slowly. ‘And aggressive.’ He touched his ear, the one she had bitten, and she flushed, noticing the bluish bruise on his earlobe.

‘Then you’d better keep away from me,’ she warned, trying to inject an element of fierceness into her tone. ‘There’s no telling what I might do next.’ Turning smartly away from him, she pushed into the infirmary, the door thumping behind her. She paused in the gloom, senses skittered, her breath easing out slowly by degrees. She needed to calm herself. How dare he creep up behind her like that? His blatant masculinity, so close, had pushed her mind from her task. If she didn’t pay heed, the soldiers would be in here before she had managed to move Edith.

The infirmary was deserted. All the novices must have run out to help with the injured soldiers. Darting over to Edith’s bed, she quickly evaluated the frail woman beneath the bedclothes. The old nun had no spare flesh on her, just skin and bone, like a little bird. She would be able to carry her. ‘Let’s wrap you up, Edith,’ Alinor said gently. Bundling the bedsheets and blanket around the nun’s thin body, she eased her forearms beneath Edith’s hips, the other around her shoulders. The old nun moaned softly, her skin stretched like translucent parchment across her jutting cheekbones.

‘It’s all right, Edith...’ Alinor whispered. ‘I’m going to move you upstairs.’

‘Let me carry her.’

Twisting around, Alinor scowled, then straightened up, irritated that she hadn’t heard the knight following her. She should have bolted the door! He stood beside her, his large frame spare and rugged, eyes shining like dark coals in the gloom. He smelled of woodsmoke, the tangy scent of horses. Her belly seemed to turn in on itself; a curious pang of longing dragged at the very core of her.

‘I can do it!’ she spat out, angry, intimidated. ‘We can fend for ourselves here. Go out and help your men, and stop bothering me!’ How jittery he made her feel! He prised away her customary self-confidence, this man whom she barely knew, throwing her off balance, burrowing beneath her practical level-headedness to make her nerves dance with an uncharacteristic anxiety.

Guilhem tilted his head on one side, his mouth twitching up in a half-smile. Her behaviour was extreme, argumentative and stubborn. She reminded him of his sister: the same wayward truculence, the same self-reliance, wanting to do everything herself and fully believing that she could do so. The flash of defiance in that beautiful face, the hostile tilt of her pert little nose. He folded his arms slowly across his chest. ‘Go on then.’ Challenge sparkled in his eyes.

Ignoring him, she bent over Edith again, attempting to hoist the frail body from the bed, praying that her weak arm wouldn’t let her down now, not here, not in front of this man. The ligaments in her spine gripped and stretched; her stomach clenched tightly. Sweat prickled on her brow, but Edith didn’t budge.

‘Out of my way.’ The big man moved in beside her impatiently, shoving at her with a swift nudge of his hip, his expression grim. Alinor tottered backwards, knocking into a stool, scowling furiously as he lifted Edith carefully from the bed, wrapped tightly in a heap of linens and blankets. Only the nun’s poor, bald head peeked out from the top of the blanket.

‘Where do I take her?’

‘I would have done it!’ she protested limply. ‘You didn’t give me enough time!’

Guilhem glanced at the main door, his mouth fixing into a firm, impenetrable line. ‘The other soldiers are being carried in now, so I suggest you lead me in the right direction or this old lady is going to have more of a shock than she deserves.’

He made her sound like a spoiled brat, thinking only of herself! ‘This way,’ Alinor bit out, fuming, swishing her skirts around with a brisk movement. She led him to a curving alcove set in the infirmary wall, indicating the uneven stone steps winding upwards from a central pillar. Daylight flooded down from a narrow, arched window set halfway up the stairwell.

‘It leads up to the second floor; there’s a small bedchamber up there.’

He ducked his head beneath the low lintel, powerful legs ascending the stairs easily, Edith’s head lolling against his thick upper arm, white skin pallid against silvery chainmail. Alinor’s breath caught in her throat; is this how he had carried her, after the Prince had hit her, senseless, unknowing, his hands clasped intimately about her body? Briefly, she closed her eyes in shame.

Kneeling on the bare floorboards, the knight laid Edith down on the pallet bed, adjusting the bedclothes so that they covered her bare feet. As he rose, his hair almost touched the serried rafters of the ceiling. Alinor hovered in the entrance to the stairwell, lips set in a mutinous line, rebellion coursing through her body. What was it about this man that made her behave so badly?

She jerked out of the way as he approached the stairs, whisking her skirts away dramatically to avoid all contact with him. ‘I suppose I should say thank you,’ Alinor bit out, grudgingly. ‘But I could have carried her.’

‘My God, you never give up, do you?’ he said, the toe of his boot knocking against her slipper by mistake. ‘It’s fortunate that you decided to give yourself to Christ, because I can’t imagine any man being able to deal with you. Your father must have blessed the day he sent you to the nunnery!’

Sadness whipped through her, sudden, violent. Her eyelashes dipped fractionally. ‘My father cursed the day I was born,’ she blurted out suddenly, her voice bitter. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

Guilhem thrust one hand through his tousled hair, the colour of rain-soaked wheat. ‘And for that I am sorry,’ he said, watching the raft of sorrow track across her pearly skin. He cupped her chin with one big hand, wanting to smooth the sadness away. His thumb swept across her cheek and, for a fraction of a moment, she stood there, savouring the sweet caress. The temptation to turn her head, to press her lips into the warm skin of his hand shot through her; her lashes fluttered downwards, momentarily. Her flesh hummed, treacherous.

What was she doing? Had she truly taken leave of her senses?

‘No,’ Alinor stuttered out. ‘I must go!’

She whipped away from him then, plunging down into the darkness of the stairwell, hand pressed tight to the spot where he had touched her, tears stinging her eyes.

* * *

The day slipped quietly into evening. Outside the tall infirmary windows, the sun sank, descending into a riot of luminous pinks and golds that streaked the darkening sky. Inside, the infirmary blazed with light: candles flickered and jumped in stone niches, rush torches had been slung into every iron bracket around the walls, revealing every lump and crack in the uneven plaster. A huge fire burned at one end of the chamber. Badly wounded soldiers filled the beds, heaped under linens and coarse woollen blankets, some shivering, some unconscious. Others rested on piles of straw near the fire, conversing in muted tones, or simply staring into space, eyes blank.

‘We were fortunate to find this place.’ Edward sighed, stretching his legs out towards the hearth, crossing his leather boots at the ankles. He brushed at a scuff of earth across his fawn-coloured legging. On a stone mantel, above the hearth, a gold cross glittered, set with pearls.

Sprawled in the oak chair, Guilhem flexed his fingers around the scrolled end of the armrest, the intricate wood carving knobbly beneath his thumb as he surveyed the nuns bustling around the men, amazed at the stoicism, the practised efficiency with which they worked. The sisters moved about gracefully, never hurrying, stiff linen veils like angel wings as they bandaged up bloody limbs and stitched up wounds with fine needles and sheep’s-gut thread. They never baulked at the enormity of the task; none of them had fainted, or turned squeamishly away at the sight of an ugly wound. As his eyes drifted across the space, he knew who he was searching for. The little nun with emerald eyes like limpid pools, whose tough and hostile manner intrigued him. He had seen the dip of her eyelashes as he had cupped her face, the slight parting of her lips, the faintest release of her breath at his brief touch. And yet here she was, trapped behind the veil, never to know of a man’s desire. His loins gripped.

‘Yes, we were lucky,’ he agreed finally, turning his attention back to Edward. What a senseless waste the day had been. They had met some of Simon de Montfort’s rebels on their way to Knighton. Forced to fight, there had been no winners, no losers; after that first terrifying skirmish, each side had slunk away to nurse their wounds, to recover. He accepted that Edward wanted to extract his father, the King, from the rebels, but at what cost? How many more men would they have to lose before they achieved such an aim?

‘You should ask one of the sisters to look at your injury,’ Edward said, his eyes swivelling to the rip in Guilhem’s tunic.

‘It’s nothing, just a scratch,’ he replied. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’

‘Here, you, come over here!’ Edward gestured towards a sister who carried a bowl of steaming water towards one of the beds. A sister with a large bruise on one cheek. The nun stopped and stared over at Edward with a haughty expression, clear, intelligent eyes mocking his command, the arrogant snapping of his fingers. ‘Yes, you!’ Edward demanded. ‘Bring that bowl of water and come over here.’

Guilhem’s breath quickened as she approached. Alinor. ‘God, Edward, will you leave it? That one would rather kill me, than cure me. It’s her, the nun from the bridge yesterday. Don’t you recognise her?’

Edward narrowed his eyes. ‘So it is. The squalling termagant. I’m sure she’ll do as she’s told after what happened.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Guilhem said. But his heart stirred in anticipation of her approach.

Alinor stopped by the chairs, setting the bowl of water down on an elm side table with deliberate slowness. Straightening, she bowed her head in deference to the Prince. ‘How may I help you, my lord?’

‘Guilhem has a wound that needs looking at.’ Edward tilted his head towards the man sitting next to him. ‘You need to sort it out.’ He yawned, turning away, uninterested.

* * *

Guilhem. So that was his name. Unusual, reminiscent of a calmness, a serenity, both qualities in which this knight seemed wholly lacking. Shadows carved out the hollows beneath his cheekbones, emphasising their prominence; blond stubble glinted on his chin, giving him a dangerous, devilish appearance. Breath shuddered in her throat, her belly plummeting. The skin on her face still smarted from his earlier touch. What was the matter with her? Men did not normally affect her like this: her father, her stepbrother, the various knights who visited her father’s estates—they were all the same, weren’t they? Either autocratic and boorish, or weak-willed and incompetent; sometimes all of those things. Her tongue wallowed like padded wool in her mouth, muffling words, stifling her speech. A wave of fluctuating uncertainty crashed over her; how did this man, this stranger, manage to burrow beneath her customary self-confidence and make her behave with such uncharacteristic vulnerability?

‘I’ll fetch one of the other nuns,’ Alinor stuttered out, lamely. ‘I need to finish stitching up the soldier over there.’ She indicated the bed nearest the fire.

Edward’s arm snaked out, seizing her wrist. ‘I want you to do this. You will do it.’ His voice was savage, his fingers grinding into the fine bones on her forearm. Releasing her, he slumped back into his seat, closing his eyes.

Guilhem caught her eye. ‘Be very careful, maid,’ he murmured. ‘Others are not so lenient as I.’

Alinor scrubbed furiously at the red marks on her wrist, hating Edward, hating the man who sat before her. Uncouth barbarians, the whole lot of them! Used to fighting and killing their way to victory, uncaring who or what stood in their way. But knowing this fact, knowing what these men were, would not help her out of her current predicament. Aware that Guilhem studied her closely, she drew on every last drop of her courage, drawing her spine up into a rigid, inflexible line.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Where is it?’ she asked, managing to make her tone bossy and defiant.

Guilhem frowned, uncomprehending. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Where is the wound?’ she hissed back at him, churlish.

In response, he sat forward abruptly, hauling his scarlet tunic over his head, followed by the heavy chainmail hauberk, and threw them into a glittering jumble on to the floor. Beneath his chainmail he wore a white linen shirt, slashed open at the neck, the ties loose, undone.

‘Here,’ he said, pointing to a bloody stain on the white cloth. His tousled hair glimmered in the firelight, tawny, golden. A delicious scent lifted from his skin, like woodsmoke, musky and dark. Sensual.

‘You need to take your shirt off,’ Alinor barked at him, her voice strangely hoarse. ‘I can’t bandage it like that.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ Grasping the sagging hem, he dragged the shirt upwards, revealing his naked torso. In the firelight, his skin seemed polished, like molten gold. His upper body was lean, with no spare flesh, his neck corded and strong, rising up from the powerful jut of his collarbone. Panels of taut, honed muscle covered his chest, ridging his stomach across a narrow waist.

A savage, boiling heat shot through her, dancing with treacherous excitement. Immediately she ducked her head, hiding the flame of colour across her cheeks, muttering something about bandages. She scooted away across the flagstone floor, skirts slithering in her wake.

Edward rolled his head lazily along the chair-back, contemplating Alinor’s bobbing flight. ‘God, what is wrong with that chit? Why can’t she perform a simple task? Did you see her face? It’s as if she’s never seen a naked man before!’

Guilhem observed him with a slow grin. ‘She’s a nun, Edward, do you think it’s likely?’

Edward quirked one eyebrow upwards. ‘No, but I thought these religious women were immune to men; sworn themselves away from earthly pleasures and all that sort of thing.’ He rubbed his belly, suddenly bored with the subject. ‘God, I’m hungry. Do you think these good sisters are going to offer us anything to eat?’ Levering himself up from the chair, he turned to Guilhem. ‘I’ll leave you with her; don’t take any nonsense. I’m off to find some food.’

* * *

Plunging trembling hands into the wicker basket full of rolled-up bandages, Alinor chewed fractiously at the inner lining of her cheek. Sort yourself out, she told herself sternly. He’s a man, just a man, like your father and your stupid, mulish stepbrother. No different. Treat him exactly as you would treat Eustace and everything will be fine. Grabbing a pot of salve, balancing it unsteadily on top of the pile of bandages, she spun on her toes and marched back to the fire, plonking her wares down on the small table beside Guilhem’s chair. The other chair was empty; Edward had disappeared. She heaved a sigh of relief.

Guilhem’s keen eyes followed her movements, watched as she plunged a cloth into the bowl of steaming water, wringing it out. The drips shone in the firelight, falling like crystal tears.

‘Should I be worried?’ he murmured, as Alinor slapped the wet steaming cloth against the bleeding line of his wound, scrubbing vigorously.

‘Not at all,’ she replied brusquely. Bright flags of colour burned her cheeks, exaggerated by the leaping flames of the fire. A burning log fell sideways, sending up a shower of sparks. ‘I’m perfectly capable.’ But her fingers shook as she dipped them into foul-smelling unguent.

‘Capable, but maybe not very forgiving.’

‘Can you blame me? You carried me forcibly off that bridge. You wouldn’t listen when I told you I could carry Edith.’ Alinor shrugged her shoulders. ‘This may hurt.’ Pressing her palm to his shoulder, she smeared the thick paste across the wound. His bulging shoulder muscle moulded into her skin like warm marble: solid, strong. Her breath punched out, a short little gasp. She had tended to men before, certainly, but never a man like this, so...so beautiful. She smacked the earthenware pot of unguent down on the table with such violence that a faint crack appeared from base to top. Remember who he is: a knight, tough and uncompromising, without an ounce of softness in his body. But even as these thoughts ran through her mind, she knew she lied to herself. Beneath that harsh exterior was the man who had stayed by her side after Edward and his soldiers had left, the man who had carried Edith, with infinite gentleness, up the spiral staircase.

‘I listened when you told me your father cursed you the day you were born.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘Please, don’t speak of it. I meant nothing by it.’ The words gushed out of her, tripping over each other.

He watched the stricken expression slip across her face. ‘If you say so,’ he said. There was no conviction in his tone.

Wiping her hands briskly on a cloth, she unrolled a length of bandage. ‘You need to sit forward, with your arm held out,’ Alinor ordered, cursing her own outspokenness. He had goaded her into blurting such a thing aloud and now his eyes were on her, on her face, scorching, bold. Curious.

‘I thought all nuns had their heads shaved,’ he said suddenly. His gaze was pinned to a spot beside her ear.

‘Wh-what?’ Alinor paused, the bandage hanging in the air, a flimsy barrier between them. She reeled back as he touched a single lock of hair sneaking out from beneath her wimple. Pure, white-gold hair. Hell’s teeth! Why hadn’t she checked on her appearance before she came in here? Furiously, she tucked the offending hair back beneath her wimple.

‘Why isn’t your head shaved?’ Guilhem persisted. Her hair had been like silk: supple, vibrant. An unexpected longing gripped him; he wanted to rip the veil from her head, unwind that tightly wrapped wimple. What was the rest of her hair like? Was it long, curling, falling to her slender hips? He shook his head slightly, ridding himself of the tempting thought. He needed to stop indulging in these idle fantasies; he was intrigued, that was all.

‘Stretch your arm out.’ Impatient to finish the task, to run away from his probing questions, Alinor’s voice was terse, strained. Dutifully, he extended his arm and she began to wrap the cloth around, beneath his armpit, over his shoulder, round and round.

‘Why not?’ Guilhem asked again.

‘I choose not to.’

‘And your God gives you that choice, does he? He seems particularly lenient.’

‘He is.’ She lowered her gaze to his shoulder, pretending to concentrate on finishing the task. Why was he asking so many questions?

‘You’re talking nonsense and you know it.’

Panic flashed across her delicate features. Ripping the end of the bandage into two halves, she tied it savagely into a knot. ‘Look, we do things differently in this country; you’re not used to our ways.’

He picked up his shirt, pulled it over his naked torso. ‘Religion works the same in both our countries; don’t try and fob me off. What are you hiding?’

‘Nothing,’ Alinor bit out. Apart from a poor, frightened girl in the cellars, but Bianca was none of his concern. ‘I’ve finished,’ she announced, swiftly gathering up the spare bandages, the unguent, clutching the bowl of water to her chest. The water slopped against her gown, splashing dark spots. ‘I suggest you get some rest, like your men.’ She glared pointedly at the curled bodies huddled in front of the fire, wrapped in their cloaks, her tone dismissive.

He tilted his chin, the brindled slash of his brow arching upwards. ‘And stop bothering you.’

‘And stop bothering me.’ Alinor turned her back on him, flouncing away.

* * *

She returned to the large table in the middle of the infirmary, popping the unused bandages back into the shallow wicker baskets, looking around the beds to see if anyone else needed her help. Every nerve-ending in her body seemed alert, highly strung, as if bracing themselves for some further onslaught; at any moment, she half-expected Guilhem to step beside her, asking more questions.

‘Everything all right over there?’ Maeve appeared at her side, tilting her head towards the fireplace. ‘I had to find the Prince something to eat, but he’s happy now; I’ve left him in the kitchens.’

‘Everything’s fine,’ Alinor reassured her. ‘I think most of them will sleep now.’

‘Do you want to fetch some food for him?’ She pointed at Guilhem, sprawled back in the chair, staring into the flames.

‘No, I do not,’ Alinor replied, scuffing at a mark on the floor with her leather boot. ‘I’m sorry to say this, but he’s not very pleasant. He’s doing everything in his power to annoy me.’ A bandage slipped from her grasp, unwinding down to the flagstones; she began to roll it up again, her movements precise and controlled, as if by performing the task perfectly she could take control of her thoughts and stop thinking about him.

‘The Prince told me to look after him. Apparently he’s his right-hand man, the Duc d’Attalens.’

Alinor jerked her head up, staring into Maeve’s pale, lined features. ‘Who?’

‘The Duc d’Attalens? I think I’ve pronounced his name correctly. Goodness, Alinor, you’ve become quite pale. Are you quite well?’

Alinor stared over at the man by the fire. Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens. Bianca’s brother.