Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  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?’

  ‘You suggest I take the men? Why, what are you going to do?’

  Guilhem sighed. ‘I promised my mother I would visit my sister. She has travelled over to be married to an English noble and I believe his castle is not far from here.’ He grinned as Edward’s mouth turned down sulkily. ‘It’ll only be one night and then I’ll join you at Knighton.’

  “You need to rest as well. Why not come with us now and see your sister on the morrow?”

  “Alright.” Guilhem nodded, then tilted his head, listening intently. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said softly, drawing out his long sword from the scabbard. The steel blade rasped along the leather, a sibilant hiss. His eyes searched the area swiftly, body poised, tense and alert in the saddle. The sound of twigs breaking, of horse’s hooves thumping heavily, came from the other side of the clearing. One of Edward’s outriders came flying towards them, his helmet gone, face red and excited. He pulled so violently on the reins that his horse skidded to a stop, the whites of its eyes rolling back wildly. ‘There’s a problem!’ he managed to gasp out.

  Chapter Two

  The only problem, as far as Guilhem could gather, seemed to be a diminutive nun dressed in what looked like a grey baggy sack and holding a large sword which he suspected did not belong to her. The substantial blade dwarfed her neat frame, semi-precious stones winking dully at the leather-bound helm. The maid stood at the apex of a packhorse bridge, legs planted wide, a laden ox-cart tilting precariously behind her; at intervals she would swish the sword from left to right in a vaguely threatening manner. From w
hat he could work out, not one soldier had made any attempt to overthrow her; instead, they stood in a miserable group on the river bank, helmets off, horses plucking in desultory manner at the spindly grass. Why were they holding back? Surely it was a simple matter to take her down?

  ‘What is going on here?’ Edward said, dismounting swiftly, reddish-blond brows held together in a deep frown.

  ‘Er...well, this...this lay sister...’ one of the soldiers began to explain, clutching at his hand. The other men collected around him, shuffling their feet, nodding encouragement to their companion.

  ‘Are you bleeding?’ Edward demanded roughly, snatching at the man’s hand and opening the stubby fingers. Blood trickled slowly from a deep cut across the soldier’s palm.

  The soldier flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘She did it.’ He nodded in the direction of the bridge.

  Edward glared at him, pale blue eyes narrowing to slits. ‘She did it? Are you trying to tell me that a nun attacked you? God in Heaven, call yourself knights?’

  ‘Look at her, sire. She’s giving us the evil eye, muttering godforsaken words at us. Words of the Devil. We tried to make her move the cart, but she slashed at my hand and took my sword! Then she raised her cross and...and put a curse on us! I swear, it’s the truth, sire. We daren’t touch her.’

  ‘What utter nonsense,’ Edward shot back. ‘Let me deal with this.’

  ‘Allow me,’ Guilhem said, stalling Edward’s forward step with a burly arm across his friend’s chest. Shoving his helmet towards a soldier, he pushed back his chainmail hood so it settled in loose folds across his shoulders. ‘It wouldn’t do to have the King’s son cut down by a woman.’

  ‘As if!’ Edward snorted. But he stopped, sweeping his arm out with mock courtesy. ‘However, I have no wish to be cursed, either. Be my guest.’

  * * *

  The knight who walked towards her was tall, a red woollen surcoat covering his muscled torso and broad shoulders. Despite his height, he carried his body with graceful athleticism, like an animal: powerful, self-assured. Beneath his surcoat, glittering chainmail covered his massive arms, but, in contrast to the other soldiers, he wore no plate armour on his shins. Instead, calf-length leather boots and woollen trousers covered his long legs. His head was bare, chainmail hood pushed back to reveal a thatch of burnished hair, more dark blond than brown, strands thick and wayward, framing a lean, tanned face, prominent cheekbones dusted with sunburn.

  Alinor licked her lips rapidly, desperate for a drink of water, for something to calm her, to quell the rising tide of fear that filled her chest, that channelled her breathing into short, quick gasps. Her wrists were weak, fatigued from holding up the cumbersome sword. Her left arm ached, the scar pinching painfully. Where had he come from? Suddenly the short, rotund soldier who had first accosted her seemed infinitely preferable to this approaching barbarian! Everything about him frightened her: those fierce, glinting eyes of midnight blue; his stern mouth set in a grim, intimidating line and that imposing height—all made her innards quail, leap with terrified anticipation. Her heart fluttered incoherently. Have courage, she told herself. You’ve managed to hold them off so far, you can do it again. This is not your grain in the cart and the nuns need the income from it in order to survive. If you let it go now, they will have nothing.

  The knight had reached the head of the oxen.

  Blood thrummed in her ears. ‘Go away!’ she stuttered out, waving the sword threateningly in the direction of his chest. The heavily embroidered gold lions danced before her eyes. ‘Olim erat urbs magna, nomine altum est!’ The Latin speech poured out of her, nonsensical.

  To her utter surprise, the knight laughed, his wide mouth breaking into a smile. Small lines crinkled at the side of his eyes. ‘Your curses don’t scare me, Sister. I don’t believe in God, or the Devil either. We have no intention of hurting you; we merely want to cross the bridge, but you seem to be blocking it.’

  ‘The wheel is broken,’ Alinor explained. Her voice juddered out, high-pitched. ‘Your men know that already! And that one over there...’ she jabbed the sword point in the direction of the first soldier who had come across to her ‘...started cutting at the sacks, spilling the grain, pouring it into the river!’

  Guilhem stuck his thumbs into his sword belt. The supple leather around his slim hips emphasised the bunched muscle in his thighs. He frowned, blue eyes sweeping across the damaged sacks behind her. A lock of burnished hair fell across his brow, blond tips grazing his tanned forehead. ‘And for that I can only apologise,’ he replied. ‘The man overstepped the mark, but I think he has paid the price; you’ve cut him quite badly.’

  ‘He deserved it!’ A vivid colour flushed Alinor’s cheeks. ‘I thought he was going to help me and then...to waste the grain like that!’

  Her eyes were truly the most astonishing colour, Guilhem thought. The wimple wrapped around the perfect oval of her face seemed only to enhance the clear, brilliant green of the irises, glowing like huge emeralds, translucent glass. His heart lurched suddenly, unexpectedly.

  ‘Just give me the sword, Sister,’ he demanded gruffly, annoyed at the unwelcome nudge in his groin. A nun, for God’s sake! What had got into him? She was nothing to look at: short, no doubt with a vast mountain of flesh beneath that unbecoming gown and a shaved head under that head-covering. A bride of Christ, married to Our Lord. Untouchable. He should know better.

  ‘Never!’ Alinor hissed out. ‘Why should I trust you...or them—’ she nodded mockingly over at Edward’s men ‘—to do the right thing? Your reputation, or should I say, your notoriety, precedes you! Everyone knows what Prince Edward is like! He’s a devil and a rogue, and that goes for all who serve him, as well! I’m staying here and I’m not moving until my friend comes back with help to mend the wheel.’

  Irritation burned through him at her rudeness. ‘Be careful, maid.’ His voice lowered in warning. ‘Your accusations are treacherous and based on ignorance; you would do well to remember who you’re dealing with, lay sister or not. Edward does not take kindly to those who defy him...’ his sparkling eyes roamed over her ‘...and neither do I.’

  Alinor reeled back in fright as he lunged forward, wrenching the sword helm easily from her and lobbing it back along the bridge with a clatter. The blade spun away, sliding across the flat cobbles. ‘No...o...o!’ she protested weakly, senses spinning; for one sickening moment, she thought she might faint. Quickly, she wound her fingers into the oxen’s leather harness, thinking to stay close to the cart that way.

  ‘Forgive me, Sister,’ the knight said, but there was no forgiveness in his tone. ‘But if you refuse to move, then I will have to move you.’

  Roped, muscular arms looped tightly around her waist; she gasped out, a mixture of terror and outrage, fingers snarling in desperation around the harness. But to no avail. He plucked her up with ease, lifting her so high that her feet flailed above the ground. Under the sheer force of the movement, her grip loosened on the harness, 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 hard up against her soft breasts, her hips 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 before!

  ‘You let me go! This instant!’ she demanded, fury and humiliation shunting aside her fear. Battering small fists down on the top of his shoulders, she wriggled violently in his fearsome grip, wanting him to drop her, kicking at his shins and stubbing her toes against the inflexible muscle. ‘Put me down! I’ll make you pay for this!’ Beneath his tunic, the tiny links that made up his mail coat poked into her raging fists.

  He chuckled, a throaty sound rippling upwards from his chest. ‘You make a lot of t
hreats for someone supposedly from the house of God. And for a woman.’

  Bashing furiously at his shoulders, Alinor failed to hear him. ‘Let me go,’ she shrieked again, ‘let me go!’ Sanity fled, as if snapped away in a sharp breeze. She would do anything to extricate herself from his punishing grip. Instinct drove her, the instinct to survive. Leaning forward, she sunk her teeth into the soft, downy lobe of his ear, senses poised for the smallest release of his arms so she could wriggle away.

  It didn’t come.

  ‘Why, you little...!’ Guilhem roared at her, outraged, his brawny arms still clamped around her, muscles like iron rivets against the small of her back. ‘You bit me!’ His eyes flared across her white, fearful face.

  Her confidence shrivelled; convinced he would release her after she had bit him, she had given no thought to the consequences. Why had she not been meek and mild, subservient? How foolish she had been! What would they do to her, a single maid in a group of royalist soldiers? My God, it didn’t bear thinking about! A shriek rose up on an engulfing tide of fear, a high-pitched screeching welling in her chest, bursting out from her mouth in incoherent splutters, gathering strength; her mind blanked completely, washed through, crumpling into a vast wasteland of utter terror.

  Her screams, shrill and anguished, made his ears hurt. Wincing, Guilhem reached the riverbank with the struggling bundle in his arms. He wanted to assure the maid that everything would be fine, that they had no intention of hurting her, and that all they wanted to do was be on their way, but he knew his words would make no impression. Given the noise the nun was making, she simply wouldn’t hear him.

  ‘Sweet Jesu! Will you stop that caterwauling?’ Edward said as he strode towards the pair of them. ‘I’ve had enough of this!’