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Chapter Five
How was it even remotely possible that the maid who huddled in the darkened cellar was related to such an inconsiderate oaf? Muttering something about fetching some food from the kitchens, Alinor stepped slowly towards the door, resisting the temptation to run out at full speed.
Grabbing a lighted torch, she plunged out into the night, striding purposefully towards the storehouse, the narrow doorway in the corner, the constricting stairs. Racing along the cellar corridor, her heart thudded half in terror, half in excitement. Bianca’s brother was here! If that was the case, then the girl’s predicament was solved; Guilhem could cross the Channel with her and escort her home. Who better, who safer, to take her than her own brother?
Bianca had been asleep, rolled up on the flagstones in the blanket. Now, blinking in the spitting light of the torch, she sat up, her loose hair cascading into her lap. ‘What in Heaven’s name are you gabbling on about, Alinor?’ She rounded her eyes in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean, ‘he’s here’?’
‘Your brother,’ Alinor gasped out. ‘It’s your brother, Guilhem! Upstairs!’
Bianca frowned. ‘No, you must be mistaken. Guilhem isn’t in this country. He’s fighting in France, in Gascony with Prince Edward. ‘
Alinor forced herself to calm down, to slow her racing blood. Slinging the torch into an iron bracket, she took Bianca’s slim hands between her own. ‘Bianca, believe me, or at least, believe the Prioress who told me. Guilhem is sitting in our infirmary before the fire, with a wound to his shoulder.’
Bianca arched one eyebrow, her expression sceptical. ‘What does he look like, then?’ Her tone was challenging, brimming with disbelief.
‘Look like? Well, he’s...tall and well built.’ Sensation licked over her, warm, treacherous. ‘And...and his hair is exactly the same colour as yours...a tawny colour. His eyes are blue, a deep, deep blue, with long black eyelashes.’ Alinor chewed on a nail. ‘And he asks too many questions for my liking. He’s too interested, too curious.’
‘Oh, sweet Heaven.’ A pallid greyness washed Bianca’s face. ‘He’s really there, isn’t he?’
‘He is.’ This was not the reaction Alinor had been expecting from Bianca. Why wasn’t she pleased? ‘What’s the matter? I thought you’d be so happy to find out that he was here...’
‘You haven’t told him about me, have you?’ Bianca plucked at Alinor’s sleeve, openly agitated.
‘Of course not,’ Alinor replied promptly. ‘But don’t you see, Bianca, he’s the solution to our problem; he can take you across the Channel and take you home.’
Bianca slumped to one side, her eyes wide and frightened. ‘Guilhem is the last person I want to see. He cannot know I am here. He would make me go back. He would make me go back to Eustace and force me to marry him.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t do that, if he knew what my stepmother tried to do.’
‘He wouldn’t believe me, or us. He would say we’re making it up, that we were being hysterical.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we—’
‘Alinor, stop it!’ Bianca’s voice was sharp, rattling out on a thread of anxiety. ‘My mother told me that it was Guilhem who finally convinced her that marriage to Eustace was the best thing for me. With our father gone, she needed his approval, despite my own misgivings. Do you think I wanted to leave my home? I never wanted to come to England!’ She sobbed, burying her face into her palms. ‘I saw the letter Guilhem wrote to our mother from Gascony, giving his consent.’ She hunched her shoulders forward into her chest. ‘My mother was flattered that the Queen had arranged it for us, it was seen as a “good” marriage, uniting France with England, strengthening the ties between the two countries. I never wanted it. But what choice did I have when my brother had written the letter insisting that I go through with it?’
‘Oh, Bianca, I’m so sorry,’ Alinor whispered, dropping down beside her, hugging her. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ The cellar air clung to her skin, a slick of chill perspiration.
Bianca lifted her face. Tears tracked down her wan cheeks, glistening in the torchlight. ‘I’m sorry, Alinor, you’ll have to think of something else. Someone else. There is no way I am going anywhere with Guilhem.’
* * *
Something was banging away incessantly inside his head. Loud. Insistent. Hitching up into a seated position, Guilhem scrubbed at his face, trying to rub away the last vestiges of sleep, to clear the fog from his brain, and squinted towards the narrow window. Outside, it was still dark; the clanging noise continued. Throwing back the covers, he strode barefoot over to the window, linen undergarments clinging to his brawny thighs, and peered out into the blackness. The church bell tolling sonorously, summoning the nuns to early prayers. Veiled figures filed across the courtyard, heads bowed. Was she there, among them? His breath snagged. Alinor. She resented every last bit of his presence, and yet, the more hostile she was towards him, the more he was drawn to her. A woman who had taken her vows. An innocent. He should know better. And yet he couldn’t forget the tempting jut of her hip as she brushed past him in that voluminous sack of a gown, the silken perfection of her skin when he had touched her face yesterday. The images tormented him. His gaze ran back and forth along the line of pale-coloured veils and swinging rosaries, but he failed to spot her. Disappointment carved through him; he frowned at the odd sensation.
He threw himself back on to the bed, bouncing against the sweet-smelling sheets, still warm from the press of his body. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked and strained with the movement. It seemed that the nuns spared no expense when it came to treating their guests. Although the room was small and sparsely furnished, the mattress was stuffed with horsehair, covered with sheets of woven flax and topped with feather pillows and furs. He stretched his long legs to the end of the bed, relishing the silken touch of the linen against his muscled limbs. After all those months of relentless fighting alongside Edward in Gascony at the behest of the King of France, desperate to reclaim his lands from the English, and after those awful months in captivity, this was sheer luxury. It reminded him of his home: his mother, the lady of the manor, bustling about, firing off orders to the servants, making sure that everyone had everything they needed: food, warmth, a bed for the night. It reminded him of the happy, vibrant presence of his sister.
He closed his eyes, disquiet spiralling through him. After his release he had been reluctant to return home, the prospect of normal life jarring strongly with the ugly emotions coursing through him. He had wanted to fight, and fight hard, hoping to scour away the debilitating guilt that dragged him down like a lead-weighted cloak. He had known nothing of his mother’s plans for Bianca, although she claimed to have sent a message to him, which he had never received. By the time Guilhem had finally returned home to inform his mother he was travelling to England with Prince Edward, Bianca had already made the treacherous journey to England herself. He had been so taken aback, annoyed even, by the way his mother had so easily acquiesced to the Queen’s request. She had seen it as a wonderful match for her daughter. All he could do now was visit his sister and make sure that she was happy. He could do that at least.
* * *
‘Fetch the rest of the bowls, please,’ Alinor asked one of the novices, as she placed one dish after another along the vast length of the refectory table, the stack of earthenware teetering precariously against her chest. Her left arm ached incessantly today; she was having trouble carrying the crockery. Sunshine streamed down from the high windows, gleaming against the pewter mugs and spoons, brightening the glossy wood of the table. Ornate candlesticks studded its length, bundles of wax set in cold, hard dribbles spilling out from around the unlit wicks.
‘How many?’ asked the young nun.
‘As many as you can find,’ Alinor said, reaching the end of the table. ‘We have to feed a lot of soldiers.’
‘Thank you, Alinor, for staying to help.’ Maeve emerged through a curtained opening in the corner of the refectory. ‘I’m not sure how we would have coped without your capable hands. It isn’t every day we receive such an influx of people.’
‘You would have managed without me, Maeve,’ Alinor assured her.
‘Well, I am grateful.’ Maeve narrowed her keen eyes, studying Alinor’s face. ‘But you look tired, my dear. Did you manage to sleep last night?’
‘Not much,’ Alinor replied truthfully. She had spent the night in the nuns’ dormitory, tossing and turning in a pallet bed, worrying about Bianca, chased by a pair of sparkling blue eyes through her fitful night. What if Guilhem should find out that Bianca was hiding right beneath them?
‘Ah, here they come now.’ The Prioress glanced up at the main door. Soldiers began to file in, slotting themselves along the rickety wooden benches. The sisters moved amongst them in pairs, one holding a vast tureen of honeyed porridge, whilst the other ladled out the cooked oats. Steam rose, mingling with the shafts of sunlight. The men talked in low voices, murmuring their thanks, keeping their eyes lowered respectfully. ‘At least it looks like they know how to behave themselves, thank the Lord,’ Maeve added.
Alinor’s heart sank as she spotted Guilhem, his tall, muscular frame covered by a close-fitting blue surcoat falling to mid-thigh, calf-length leather boots on his legs secured with criss-crossed laces. Beneath his surcoat, he wore a fine wool under-tunic, of which only the sleeves were visible. The material hugged his thick arms, emphasising the brawny curve of his biceps, the muscled sinew of his forearm. His hair shone like a bronze coin. Alinor swallowed hastily, turned away. ‘At least some of them do,’ she responded, waspishly.
Maeve noted the burn of colour sweep Alinor’s cheeks. ‘Has something happened?’ Her voice sharpened.
‘No, no,’ Alinor replied vehemently. She grimaced at the floor, blood racing through her veins. How to explain the relentless beat of her heart that skipped and lurched at the smallest glimpse of Guilhem?
‘I shouldn’t worry, my dear.’ Maeve placed one hand on Alinor’s shoulder, placating her. ‘They’re leaving this morning. The Prince spoke to me last night. He’s planning to stay at the Queen’s palace at Knighton for a couple of days’ rest and recuperation. It’s only a few miles north from here. Some of the men are in no condition to fight.’
‘Thank God.’ Alinor smoothed her hands down the front of her apron; her palms were sweating.
‘Alinor?’ Sister Beatrice scurried up to her, lugging an empty cauldron of porridge between her two plump hands. ‘You live at Claverstock, don’t you?’
‘Yes, you know I do.’ Alinor smiled at her. ‘Here, let me take that, it’s too heavy for you.’ She reached out for the cauldron, but Sister Beatrice shook her head, hanging on to the iron handles.
‘No, I’ll take it to the kitchens. You need to go and talk to him.’ She nodded significantly over to the refectory table, her veil gathering lumpily behind her neck.
‘Talk to whom?’ A cold wash of panic shot through Alinor’s veins. ‘Who is asking you about Claverstock?’ Her voice heightened, a shrill note.
‘Him, that one over there, the handsome one with the blue tunic. Sitting next to the Prince.’
‘What did you say to him?’ Alinor blurted out, words juddering.
Beatrice laughed. ‘Nothing really. He was asking if I knew the way to Claverstock, and I said I would ask you.’
‘You didn’t say that I lived there?’
‘No, no, of course not!’ Beatrice rounded her eyes at Alinor’s reaction. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked in a small voice, then clamped her lips together, a dull flush washing over her dumpy cheeks. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘No. Don’t worry.’ Alinor grasped the iron pot from the nun’s astounded hands. ‘I’ll take this now.’
‘But...’ Sister Beatrice’s bottom lip sagged down ‘...aren’t you going to talk to him?’
‘Later!’ Alinor turned away abruptly, heading for the refectory door, clasping the pot against her belly like a shield. Scampering down the wooden stairs, she walked swiftly along the open-sided cloister, the morning sun warming her left cheek. She cursed her own stupidity. How foolish she had been, sleeping the night away at the Priory. Why, in Heaven’s name, had she not returned home last night to warn her stepmother? As Bianca’s brother, Guilhem would naturally ask about Claverstock; it was where his sister was supposed to be, about to marry Alinor’s stepbrother! And if Guilhem failed to gain directions to Claverstock from her, then it wouldn’t be long before someone else told him.
Abandoning the porridge pot against the cloister wall, Alinor spun on her heel and began to run, linen veil flapping out. She had no time to change out of her nun’s garments; her only priority was to reach Claverstock before Guilhem did. Skin puckering with terror, her mind toiled frantically on a plan to leave the Priory as quickly and quietly as possible. The refectory was situated on the first floor of the west range; if Alinor cut through the storerooms on the ground floor, she could slip out towards the gatehouse unnoticed.
She almost made it.
A man came down the refectory stairs into the cloister to block her path. A blue surcoat clung to broad shoulders; silver embroidery winked and glittered in the sunlight. A slight breeze lifted strands of his hair, giving him a tousled look. Bright blue eyes, the colour of the sea, gleamed down at her as she skidded to a stop in front of him.
He folded his arms slowly across his chest, a human bulwark barricading her path. ‘Where are you going?’ Guilhem’s voice was stern, but friendly.
Alinor angled her neat head towards him. ‘Away from you,’ she muttered grumpily.
He smiled, ignoring her rudeness. ‘I think you can help me.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Listen, the sisters tell me you know the way to Claverstock. I have asked the Prioress to give you leave to show me and she has granted her permission.’
‘Oh, God, why?’ she blurted out, without thinking. She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to prevent further words from emerging. This whole situation was becoming worse and worse!
Guilhem laughed at her reaction. ‘Because I am a knight with Prince Edward and therefore she trusts me? And because I was under the mistaken impression that most nuns like to help people?’ he added scathingly. ‘And, unfortunately for me, it seems that you are the only person who knows the way.’ His voice held the hint of a question. ‘Believe me, if there were anyone else, I would pick them instead.’
Maeve appeared at the top of the refectory stairs, her tall reed-thin figure framed by the thick oak doorposts. ‘Ah, there you are.’ Her calm, melodic tones drifted down. ‘Can you take him, Alinor?’
She dipped her head slowly in agreement. The strength sapped from her limbs; a debilitating weakness creeping across her body. Halfway between her mouth and her lungs, her breath snared. A horrible feeling of entrapment engulfed her, a tangled net from which she could not escape.
‘Follow me,’ said Guilhem. ‘My horse is this way.’
* * *
A long open-fronted barn served as a makeshift stable at the Priory; a thatched roof tilted down to a low stone wall at the back, rough-cut posts supporting the roof at the front. Horses crammed into the shelter, rumps against rumps, wheeling their heads around as Guilhem and Alinor approached. The barn sat in shadow; thick dew daubed the long grass alongside, strings of diamonds in the limpid light.
Guilhem fetched his saddle and bridle from the storeroom and lowered them to the ground. Diving into the mass of horseflesh with the bridle swinging from his hand, he extracted his horse with ease, leading the glossy, black stallion out of the heaving, snorting mass.
‘Where’s yours?’ He fastened the bridle with deft fingers around the horse’s nose, settling the metal bit between the great yellow teeth, his eyebrow tipping upwards in question. The horse pawed at the cobbles with his great hooves, a hideous scraping sound, his forelocks feathered with an abundance of black hair. Alinor backed away, breath quickening in her lungs. Nausea trickled through her stomach, a faint queasiness. The fear hadn’t gone away, then. Maybe it never would. Unconsciously, she rubbed at her arm, the twisted flesh hiding beneath the long sleeve of her nun’s habit.
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