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He was awakened once again by the bolt drawing back and someone entering the room. The person began to hum softly in a voice that was soft and female. This time he had the sense to remain silent and lie with eyes half-open. It was a different woman this time, taller and dressed in a deep brown, flowing surcoat. She was standing by the small table doing something Jack could not see. She came to the bed and he realised that she had a cloth and a bowl of water. Another servant of whoever was holding him, he suspected.
He closed his eyes so she would not realise he was awake. She unwound the bandage from around his head and bathed the wound, then moved from working on his head to tending the grazes on his body. She slid her cool hand slowly up the length of his bare belly with the softness of a lover beginning a caress. He drew a sharp breath as an overwhelming sense of pleasure combined with the sting of the cuts. Realising he could no longer feign sleep, he opened his eyes.
‘Ah, you are awake again,’ she said in what he recognised as the Breton dialect.
That mended another rip in the cloth that was his mind. Now he knew which part of the world he was in. She did not sound particularly happy at the discovery.
‘You frightened Marie,’ the woman said. She was looking at him severely so his first impression was of forbidding black eyes. ‘She ran to me crying tales of nonsense words growled at her.’
He swallowed and opened his mouth to try explaining what had happened.
‘Don’t try to speak,’ she instructed. ‘Wait there.’
She moved to the table and came back bearing a wide-rimmed earthenware cup. She slipped a hand beneath his neck and raised him slightly to cradle his head, then held the cup to his lips. It turned out to be cider and he drank greedily until the cup was empty.
Her cool fingers trailed across the back of his neck as she withdrew her hand and laid his head back. He shivered once more with unexpected desire and gave a soft moan. She must have interpreted this as pain because she peered down at him and concern banished the severity of her expression. Something woke inside him as her face filled his gaze: a deep sense of familiarity and the certainty that he had seen this face before. The memory fluttered from him like moths circling a lamp and evading fingers trying to seize them, leaving only vague shapes and the sensation of intimacy. Like the moths, he felt pulled towards her flame. His lips twitched.
‘Can you speak now?’ she asked.
‘I did not mean to frighten her,’ he croaked.
‘I’m glad to hear it. I would not like to think I am giving shelter to one who would terrorise girls.’
They were strangers, then. So why did he feel such a connection to her? He furrowed his brow.
She gave a brief smile. ‘Think nothing of it. Marie is silly and jumps if the kitchen cats mew behind her.’
With an effort of will he was able to focus on her with a little more clarity now, though his eyes kept blurring. From the high singing voice, he had thought she was not much older than a child, but now he saw she was past her youth. A few faint lines had begun to appear at the corner of her eyes and mouth and a short frown line ran between her brows to the top of a straight, sharp nose. The severe expression must be habitual.
He reassessed his opinion that she was a mere servant. Her surcoat was plain brown with wide sleeves, but the close-fitting green kirtle beneath had a wide band of embroidery around the straight neck and wrists that spoke of quality. Beneath the linen band across her brow, there was a glint of gold combs that swept her black hair up into rolls at each side of her head. They looked expensive, indicating wealth, and she wore rings on three of her fingers.
More than that, the way she held herself and the expression on her face suggested she was used to any command she issued being obeyed. She was clearly waiting for him to respond. He tested his tongue and found it looser.
‘My head aches,’ he said in a croaky voice. ‘I do not know this place. What happened to me?’
She frowned, deepening the small line between her straight black brows.
‘Do you remember anything of how you came to be here?’
He knew better now than to try to shake his head and simply murmured, ‘Nothing, madame. I remember nothing. What can you tell me?’
She did not answer and her eyes narrowed. He rose up as best he could and clutched at her hand and felt her fingers straighten. Her eyes widened and without knowing why he put a hand to her cheek. Immediately, the gentleness with which she had nursed him was gone, replaced by ice.
‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, her face becoming thunderous. She leaned closer to him and with a twist of her wrist she had slipped from his grip.
‘Pardon me,’ he said. He fell back on the pillow, panting slightly from the effort it had cost him. ‘But, please, if you can tell me anything, I beseech you to do so.’
‘I will tell you what I can. Be warned, monsieur, no man touches me without my consent, even an invalid.’
‘I understand.’
She gave a brief, tight smile of approval and settled back on to her knees, arranging her skirts with practised elegance, then rested her hands neatly in her lap.
‘You were on a ship.’
She paused and looked away. Her face closed down. She looked wary and, despite her sharp, striking features, this uncertainty gave her an air of fragility. He waited, examining her in the bright sunlight as her eyes darted quickly around. He wanted to stroke her arm and encourage her to continue, but her warning rang in his ears.
‘What do you know?’ he prompted.
‘There was a shipwreck. We found you on the beach among the debris and the dead.’ She leaned closer and her eyes raked over him, scrutinising him so intimately he imagined he was being undressed. ‘Do you really remember nothing? What is your name?’
And this was when he truly began to panic. With rising terror, he realised he did not know the answer.
‘I can’t remember!’
He heard alarm in his voice, but the woman looked suspicious. Her expression became stone.
‘Are you sure?’ She leaned closer. ‘Are you a spy? How do I know you are telling the truth?’
He reached out to clutch her sleeve to emphasise his integrity, but remembered her warning in time to stay his hand in mid-air. They both regarded it. He clenched his fist, holding it to his side, then lowered it to the fur. Their eyes found each other’s and the woman nodded. A brief moment of understanding passed between them. In any other circumstances he would find the situation extremely erotic, but the fascination he had for her had to compete with the disorientation, weakness and confusion he felt.
‘I have no proof, but believe me, please. I am telling the truth. I cannot remember who I am.’
He ground his fingers into the thick white pelt that covered him and gazed at her, willing her to believe him. She eyed him steadily, her dark eyes moving slowly over his face, up to the wound on his head and down again, further over his body. It made him feel uneasy to be examined so frankly by a stranger. More than that was the fact of her sex. The fascination he felt for her was being pushed deep inside him by a stronger, more painful emotion that cautioned him to resist and retreat. The presence of a woman felt even more unfamiliar than the unknown surroundings, but it came to him that it was not just her. He would not feel easy with any woman at his bedside, but did not know why. It was slightly reassuring because the warning voice meant that deep down inside him, some knowledge of himself still existed and could hopefully be unearthed.
‘Shall I suggest some names and see if anything seems right?’ the woman asked.
He nodded slightly.
She spoke names, pausing after each to give him time to respond and looking questioningly at him. ‘Philippe... Michel... Charles... James... Jacques...’
A dart pierced his stomach.
Jack.
That had a familiarity where the others did not. She stopped and her head tilted to one side.
‘You are Jacques? Or Jack, as you are English, I suspect. You muttered something on the shore when we found you which could have been that.’
‘You were there?’ He raised himself to his elbows, more astonished by this revelation than a possible nationality and name.
‘I was.’ She pushed herself to her feet and walked away, gracefully crossing the room to the table. She stood with her back to him, wrung out the cloth and returned. She pressed it to his forehead and used the motion to lay him back down again.
‘It was I who found you. You were the only survivor that we found.’
Her full lips twisted down with sadness and Jack—as he decided must suffice for now—was filled with warmth for her compassion. Who had time to grieve for strangers? He could remember nothing of the men who had perished, though he must have known them, and remorse chilled him.
‘I thought you were dead, but then you opened your eyes,’ the woman said in a matter-of-fact voice, as if she was recounting a day at market. ‘I was unsure if you would survive, but we brought you back here anyway and hoped.’
We? Did she have a husband? A woman of her age usually did, unless she was widowed.
‘Whose house am I in?’ he asked. ‘Where is its master?’
Her lips twitched and once again she paused before answering, filling Jack with the suspicion that there was an undercurrent he was not aware of.
‘You wish to meet the master of this house? You have no idea whose house you are in, but you assume naturally that there must be one.’
Jack said nothing, wondering if his assumption was wrong. This woman was fascinating. Perhaps she was the mistress and sole chatelaine of wherever he was.
‘Shall I call you Jack?’ she asked.
He nodded. The shape of it felt well enough in his mouth and he would be content to live under that name for the time being. If he discovered another, then he would relinquish it. If he never recovered his memory—and the thought of that made him want to scream with horror—a plain name would suit an unknown man.
‘You should sleep again,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll have food sent to you as well as water to bathe in and clean clothing.’ Her gaze raked him once more. ‘We didn’t want to touch you too much for fear of injuring you further, but I can imagine some fresh attire would be welcome.’
She wrinkled her nose slightly and Jack realised with a sense of shame that his body and hair felt filthy. There was an odour clinging to him that had the taint of seawater and stale sweat. Bathing was suddenly the most enticing thing he could think of.
‘Last night,’ he said. ‘On the shore...’
The woman raised her eyebrows.
‘Monsieur Jack, you have been unconscious for five days.’
Five days! His head swam and he shook his head, causing waves of dizziness to envelop him. ‘How?’
‘A fever took hold of you. I thought you would die. It was only last night that it broke and you were able to rest.’
She looked thoughtful, then placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. His skin flamed beneath her touch. Even with the deep sense of unease that had cautioned him to keep his distance, he did not want to discourage her from touching him in the slightest. Quite the opposite. He watched her face to see if she was equally affected. She slid her eyes to his and smiled like a cat watching a mouse and his heart gave a violent thud.
‘Your heart is strong, monsieur, even though you are weak. I think you are strong when you are well, yes?’
Jack flexed the muscles in his arms and felt them tighten easily. He felt weak and ill, but there was strength in his body that would return in time. His heart was racing, but that was from the sensation of her hand on his flesh.
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.
She nodded in the manner of a queen receiving homage from a subject, then left. Jack listened for the sound of the bolt being drawn across, but heard nothing. He had been a prisoner before, but apparently was no longer. Or perhaps the woman rightly suspected that even if he had the inclination to roam about, he didn’t possess the strength yet.
It was only as he finished the cider and lay back to try to sleep again that it occurred to him he had not asked her name, nor had the bewitching creature given it.
Chapter Four
Blanche walked to the end of the passageway. She took three breaths to regain her composure before she smiled down at Andrey who was sitting on a stool.
‘That was interesting,’ she said. An understatement, indeed.
Andrey grunted and sheathed the sword that he was conspicuously wearing.
‘What did you find out?’
‘Very little.’ Blanche frowned. ‘He claims to have no memory of who he is or where he is from.’
‘Do you believe him or do you think he is lying?’
Blanche considered the conversation that had taken place. The man’s—Jack’s—air of confusion and the look of horror that had crossed his face when he had been unable to supply a name had appeared genuine. The film of perspiration that had arisen across his brow and chest could not have been feigned. Her hand twitched as she recalled the shape of his chest muscles beneath her palm, firm and smooth. A younger body than she had touched for so long. It had taken control not to explore further down to his belly and beyond and see if everything was as well toned. She shook her head to rid herself of the image.
‘I believe him. More’s the pity,’ she said. She looked back at the door to the storeroom. A twinge of guilt took her by surprise as she considered what an inhospitable room it was for a man in his circumstances to find himself. A bare room, little more than a cell. She had not bolted the door, but she wondered if he was aware of that, or if he even suspected he had been confined at all. There were other, better rooms and other beds. She blinked, surprised at the direction her thoughts were taking. It was that kiss which had done it. She should never have yielded to the temptation on the beach.
‘We’ll have to keep him here a little longer.’
‘Why?’ Andrey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘He has no money, no possessions.’ Her conscience gave a twinge; there had been a box somewhere and she had the cross in her room.
‘He has no name.’
‘Assuming he is telling the truth,’ Andrey said.
‘Assuming that.’ Blanche sighed, wishing she had never brought him to the castle. ‘However, we cannot send him out to wander the countryside like a vagrant. Who knows whom he might encounter? Here he is safe from harm.’
‘And causing harm,’ Andrey pointed out. ‘Marie didn’t like him.’
‘He made her jump, nothing more,’ Blanche said. Andrey was protective of his wife to the point of inanity and Marie’s reaction to being surprised would not have helped Jack endear himself.
They walked back up the stairs and out into the courtyard. The window that was high in Jack’s room was at ground level in the wall of the storerooms so a breeze could keep grain fresh. If Blanche knelt down beside it, she would be able to look over his bed. Was he sleeping now or lying awake, wondering who and where he was? The fever that had almost claimed his life had been fierce, and his skin had burned even as he shivered. His muscles did not lie—he must be strong indeed to have fought that off.
She decided against looking in case he was awake and saw her.
‘Put a guard on his door,’ she told Andrey. ‘Someone loyal to you.’
She straightened her sleeves and thought back to the way Jack had seized her by the wrist. He had moved so quickly, but there had been no panic in her. The abhorrence she usually felt at being touched without permission had been mild and she had snapped at him as a matter of course. When the impulse had clearly filled him to try to touch her for a second time he had stayed his hand and that had endeared him to her even more.
‘A pity he has no memory,’ she mused to Andrey. ‘I would like to know who he is and what he is doing.’
She crossed the courtyard from the building where Jack was being housed and climbed the outside stairs to the main tower of the fort. She paused as she always did and pressed her palm against the door. Compared to the grand home that she had shared with her second husband, Yann, it was small, but it belonged to her and no one else. Jack had believed the house belonged to a man, naturally, and the knowledge rankled. But why would he not?
She lifted her head, proud to have done something so few women would dare to try or succeed in doing. There had been times after Yann’s death when her courage to continue down the path she had chosen had wavered. But she had continued, and Bleiz Mor lived and fought, her name a tribute to the wolf pelts that had decorated their walls.
‘Brittany will triumph,’ she whispered to Yann’s ghost. ‘You did not die in vain.’
She climbed the stairs to her private room on the top floor of the tower and sat in the high-backed chair at the window, shivering a little in the breeze that crept round the threadbare screens. Winter had not fully loosened its grasp, but each time she considered spending some of her plunder on her own comfort she thought of the widowed women who struggled in bare cottages to feed fatherless children, or the men toiling to grow crops in fields turned to battlefields. She did not need it as much as they did.
She turned her attention to the cross that lay on the table. Keeping this was an indulgence. She had examined it over and over in the days before Jack regained consciousness and could picture it with her eyes closed. It was engraved on the back with the initials J and M on either side. She had been right to suspect his name might begin with that letter. She wondered who M was and a little jealous flame flickered in her breast. She hoped it was his family name and not that of a wife or lover. Perhaps he would remember if she showed him the cross. She would wait until he was well rather than risk agitating him now.
She held the cross tightly and pursed her lips. That was not the only reason for delaying. If his memory returned and he was proved to be a supporter of Charles de Blois, there were matters she would have to face. Taking a man’s life in combat or on the seas was one thing, but callously executing him in her own home after giving him care and shelter was entirely another. She worried she was allowing her sense of sympathy for his injuries and pity for his circumstances to cloud her judgement. Perhaps he thought a woman would be more easily tricked or cajoled into believing his lies, or that her opinions were of no consequence. He would not be the first man who had tried to dismiss her in such a way.
She walked behind the tapestry screen and into the shallow alcove of the window and glanced out over the sea, deep in thought. She occupied the whole of the top floor of the tower as her bedchamber and private solar. From her window, and hers alone, high on the highest floor of the tower, it was possible to see that the coast with its shallow inlets and jutting rocks dipped in more deeply and curved round behind the cliff in a loop.
It was in this concealed cove, safe from the tides and from passing eyes, where her two ships rested at anchor. She inhaled deeply, tasting the salt air in the back of her mouth and feeling the wind enfolding her. She had not sailed since the night before Jack’s shipwreck.
Although she was still furious at the way the villagers had defied her and lit the church lights, she knew they were growing restless with the continued assaults on houses loyal to the de Montfort cause. She had sworn vengeance on the French, yet had kept her ships at harbour since the night of the shipwreck, the thought of more death turning her stomach in a way that was new and unpleasant. News had come to her earlier in the day through the network of men in her pay of a French ship making its way along the coast. It would not be allowed to pass further up the coast.
She summoned Marie—the only person Blanche permitted inside her private sanctuary—and sent orders down to Andrey to ready her two ships, White Wolf and White Hawk, by dusk.
She descended to the large room on the ground floor where her household ate and joined them, passing around the tables to speak with each man and woman. Like her, everyone here had lost someone dear to the French after the siege of Quimper or in other battles. Like her, they had sworn to wreak revenge on those who had taken arms against the rightful claimant to the dukedom of Brittany, but only Blanche had the determination and courage to do what she had done and rebuild her life stronger than she had been before. They loved her for it and were fiercely loyal. She had no fears that her identity would be revealed by anyone within the walls of the castle.
She could not help but feel proud of what she had accomplished as she looked round the room. Lamps burned brightly on every table, richly coloured tapestries hung along each wall and they drank from ornate goblets. Anyone who visited would be awestruck by the riches on display and understand that Blanche Tanet’s spirit had not died when her husband Yann had been executed.
She stood on the raised dais before the fire, knowing that her silhouette before the flames was dramatic, and waited for silence.
‘Luring the ship on to the rocks was cowardly and short-sighted. We could harm our allies as much as our enemies. That must not happen again.’ She waited while the inevitable muttering subsided. Jagu Ronec was sitting beside Andrey, his face thunderous. Blanche smiled at him warmly, despite the stirrings of anxiety inside her, and addressed her next words of flattery to him.
‘You are all brave men, strong and determined, and have no need of such tricks. Tonight, my friends, we attack the French ship that is sailing down the coast from Concarneau. I wish you success. We will win and Brittany will triumph.’
She held her goblet aloft, fingers closing round the jewelled stem, and led the toast. The wine they had salvaged from the wreck was excellent quality. She stepped down and spoke to Ronec.
‘I’ll sail with you tonight. White Hawk leads the advance.’
Ronec’s eyes gleamed. Blanche hid her revulsion as his lips brushed the back of her hand. If she had been more far-sighted, she would never have thrown her lot in with him, but it had seemed a good idea given that he was her closest neighbour and a friend of her first husband. He was fiercely passionate about the cause, but lacked the acumen to come up with such a bold venture himself. A week of nights in his bed had been a price she had reluctantly accepted in return for the money she had needed and the provision of a crew, but he clearly expected the transaction to continue even after he had paid her what she needed for White Hawk. That she had staved him off for over a year was a source of amazement to everyone, most of all to Blanche, and it was a constant worry that she could not hope to do so for ever.
The assault was a success. White Hawk lay in wait for the French cog while White Wolf came from behind. When the sail was hoisted it caught the wind, the square billowing out, proudly displaying the symbol of the wolf pelt. She saw White Hawk do the same. Blanche’s mood lifted, as it never failed to once she felt the waves lifting and breaking. The symbol of Yann’s favourite quarry now struck fear into the hearts of the foe who had taken him.
The crew were suppressed with ease and little bloodshed. Blanche strode back and forth before the bound crew who knelt on the deck at sword point. Dressed in Bleiz Mor’s disguise, the sense of power never failed to thrill her. Even in the height of summer, she wore a thickly padded gambeson beneath a heavy leather jerkin. As well as protecting her, it gave her a masculine shape. The impression was of a stocky man. To complete the disguise, she wore a low-brimmed hat and grotesque jongleur’s leather mask in the form of a wolf’s upper face. It added an air of menace and ensured that any opponent would not realise he was facing a woman. She suspected she could forgo the padding and still go undetected because how many women ever faced and defeated men as she did?