Bianca looked at her, her gaze curious. ‘Goodness, Alinor, you look quite scary! Remind me not to meet you on a dark night.’ She flicked her reins idly against the horse’s neck as they plodded along, twitching the flies away. ‘I don’t know any more details. Guilhem has never spoken of what happened, to this day.’
Alinor kicked her horse on ahead, moving out from the trees and into a patch of open pasture: an uneven slope, the ground ridged and bumpy. Tussocks of stiff moor grass clumped along the edges of a stream, sides deep-cut, raw earth exposed. Her hands trembled; she gripped the reins, imagining what Guilhem might have been through, how he had suffered.
Up ahead, Guilhem had reined in his horse, springing to the ground where the stream ran shallow and lapped a narrow semi-circle of small stones. He led his horse to the water; the animal’s head dropped down, bridle jangling. The women approached, pulling in the bridles on their horses. Guilhem moved around to Alinor, hands clamping around her slim waist to lift her out of the saddle. She clutched at his upper arms as he swung her light weight through the air, embroidered hemline flying out in the breeze. He caught a tantalising glimpse of small red slippers before settling her firmly on the ground. He did the same for Bianca, taking both their horses to the stream.
‘Oh, I can’t tell you how good this feels!’ Bianca said with delight, lifting her pale, beautiful face to the sun, shaking back her veil. The pearls in her circlet glowed, a luminous light. The creases in her wimple pulled out smoothly with the movement. ‘After being stuck in that cellar. How long was I there for, Alinor?’
Alinor counted in her head, remembering their scurried escape from Claverstock, hand in hand; the ragged panic, the rapid breaths of fear. She had taken such a risk, for if Wilhelma had caught them...what would have happened? Would she have killed them both? ‘Not above a few days, Bianca.’
Bianca laughed, nodding. ‘Well, it seemed like for ever!’ Lifting her skirts, she twirled about the loose gravel, revealing trim ankles in fine silk stockings. Her silk veil flew out, spinning in the gentle breeze. Her slim height made her movements elegant, graceful, the stones crunching softly beneath her feet. Her skirts billowed out, threatening to dip into the stream. ‘And now I’m free!’
Eyes sparkling, Guilhem caught his sister by the elbow before she made herself giddy and ended up in the water. They made a handsome pair, Alinor thought, with their intense blue eyes and vigorous, burnished hair; their height.
Hanging on to Bianca, Guilhem glanced over at Alinor, to where she stood staring down into the gurgling water, her expression pensive. Behind her, a heat haze shimmered, casting her slender silhouette in a dazzling surround, making her seem magical, from another world. To think how much she had done for Bianca was almost inconceivable given her size and strength, but she had managed it; she had saved his sister, yet she seemed incapable of realising her own danger. His heart surged, mouth tightening, jaw rigid. How could he do this? There was no denying the connection between them; it reared up every time he went near her, raw and primal, flaring in the air between them. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe, but he had to draw on self-restraint to keep his emotions under control. He hoped and prayed he would be able to do it, for both their sakes.
* * *
Heading north-east, with Guilhem up front, they rode through the villages of Nunton and Alderbury, attracting scant attention. At this hour of the day, the flinty track was deserted, cottage doors closed; few people were about. The villagers would be working hard in the fields, gathering in the last harvests for their lord. After all the rain and wind yestereve, the worry would be that inclement autumn weather would be setting in for good.
They skirted to the south of Standlynch, the half-built cathedral spire dominating the jumble of roofs in the distance, reaching high up into the blue sky. Wooden scaffolding embraced the building, men like tiny black insects hauling buckets of stone up to the highest level with ropes and pulleys. Here, across an area of rich pastureland, the river flowing down from the city split and divided: an elongated web of bisecting channels, running shallow through the undulating grassland. Huge willows draped into the glassy water, green tresses sketching the surface, creating ripples of disturbance, dapples of shade. Water lapped and gurgled over stony riverbeds. The track to Knighton took them through several man-made fording points, where the river ran, inch-deep, over large flat stones.
As they trotted through the last of the fords, water splashed up, flicked by the horses’ hooves. Sparkling droplets landed on Alinor’s skirts, trickling down over the napped wool like tears. They were nearing the palace at Knighton; her mind began to focus and think forward, attempting to form some sort of plan. She couldn’t stay with Guilhem and Bianca for ever; they had their own separate lives to lead. Her heart curled into a miserable lump in her chest, but she squashed down the feeling, stamped hard on it. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity; she was stronger than that. If the Queen brought her stepmother and brother to justice, then she would be able to go home, and carry on with her life as before. It would be as if she had never met Guilhem.
But how could it be? Would she ever be able to forget him? The searing touch of his mouth that turned her innards to liquid fire; the strong hand at her back, supporting her; his vivid, caring glance? He had given her enough memories to fill a lifetime. Would it be enough for her to live on, to continue? She allowed her mind to roam, desperate to gather every memory of the blistering heat of his touch, his rugged, musky smell.
The afternoon sun warmed her back. Her muscles sagged with inertia, a lack of energy. She tracked a black moorhen skirting the riverbank, dipping and diving, its beak stark orange against chestnut feathers. As she stretched her spine out, her ligaments pulled, straining with the movement. Thinking about Guilhem made her soft, dull-witted, she realised, lulling her into a sensual, dream-like state. And that was all it was, she told herself sternly: a dream. She would do well to remember the bitter reality of her situation and not indulge in the fleeting idealised nonsense of her thoughts. What was wrong with her? Her eyelids kept fluttering downwards; once or twice she had to pull herself sharply upright to stop herself falling sideways. She screwed up her eyes to focus on Guilhem trotting in front of her, attempting to rid her brain of its drowsy befuddlement. The horse’s glossy rump, smooth-haired, flashed in the sunlight, leather saddlebags bouncing behind, gold buckles glinting.
Before her rode a man who had suffered, thought Alinor, and only God knew how much. And yet to look at him, to view his sheer stature and physique, it seemed beyond belief to think that someone would have been able to capture him, to trap that wild, vital spirit and shut him away in darkness. Inconceivable. Her eyelids drifted downwards, mind troubled with thoughts of Guilhem’s captivity, worrying at her. Her horse plodded onwards, gait rhythmic, soporific, up the gentle slope on the other side of the river crossing. Alinor’s head drooped forward to her chest.
‘Oh, Guilhem, help me!’ Bianca called out to her brother. She moved her horse tight in beside Alinor, propping the lolling figure upright. ‘Goodness, Alinor, you weigh a ton!’ she gasped out.
‘I have her.’ An arm scooped about Alinor’s waist and she was pulled straight up into the saddle from the other side. Her head reeled; she was only vaguely aware that she had slipped and that someone had caught her. Through the layers of sleep and thought, she heard Guilhem’s voice. But he was in the dungeon, he was trapped!
‘What happened to you?’ Her voice sprang out, sharp and accusatory. Her head whipped round to meet the brief puzzlement in his smiling eyes. The thick muscles in his upper arm nudged her spine, his arm curling around her.
‘Nothing.’ He laughed, his grin spreading wide. ‘But you fell asleep!’
She clapped her hands across her mouth in horror, as if to stop any further incriminating words from emerging. What had she said? Hectic colour crossed her cheeks. She had been thinking about hi
m, about his imprisonment, and then, she had asked the question out loud, the question that had been rolling around in her head before she dozed off! ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry!’ Mortified, Alinor pressed her palms flat over her eyes, scrubbing briskly. ‘I don’t know what happened...’
‘You fell asleep,’ Guilhem said again, bright eyes roving across her face. ‘It’s nothing to look so shocked about.’ His reins fell slack about his horse’s neck. His arm embraced her: an iron-clad brace against her spine; his knee and upper thigh crushed against hers as the animals rode close. ‘You’re exhausted, Alinor.’ Purple half-moons of tiredness patched beneath her eyes. ‘Which is not really surprising, considering all that has happened in the past few days.’
‘She needs to sleep, Guilhem,’ Bianca said, tapping her heels into her horse’s rump to move alongside them.
‘Absolutely,’ he agreed. ‘Knighton is not far now, not above a few miles.’ He sent her a soft smile, teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Do you think you can make it? Or do you want to ride with me?’
‘I can make it alone!’ she blurted out hotly. The last thing she wanted was to be closer to this man than she had to. She was not about to make a fool of herself again.
* * *
Knighton Palace stood on a high point above the city of Standlynch, its position dominating the surrounding countryside. A vast deer park surrounded the palace, a landscape of undulating pasture, trees cleared so that deer and sheep could graze. Clusters of fallow deer, pale brown with white spots along their backs, took fright at their horses passing, flying off on spindly legs up the slope, tails whisking. The park’s outer edges were bounded by a man-made bank and topped with a palisade fence, higher than a man’s head. The palace itself was a succession of white-plastered buildings, strung out along the ridge like square beads on a string.
‘I’m not sure...’ Alinor said doubtfully as they approached the western gatehouse. She eyed the magnificent buildings, the carved stone gargoyles cresting the roof lines, the expensive hand-blown glass glinting in the latticed windows. ‘I’m not sure I should be here at all.’
‘Nonsense!’ replied Bianca. ‘You’re here to keep me company. I’m so nervous that the Queen won’t agree to dissolve this marriage contract with your stepbrother. What have you got to worry about?’
Him, she thought, glancing at the breadth of Guilhem’s shoulders beneath his surcoat, taut blue wool. He jumped from his horse, striding forward at the moment his boots hit the ground to greet an older woman emerging from a large double-height building. He obviously knew her, reaching out and clasping both her hands. He turned, pointing at Bianca and Alinor, and the woman tilted her head to look over his shoulder at them.
‘Hannah will take you to the guest chambers.’ He walked over to Alinor, rested his hand on the pommel of her saddle. His fingers were sinewy, strong, a net of veins across his tanned hand, blond hairs fringing his wrist. ‘You can rest before we go and meet Queen Eleanor.’
Anxiety fluttered in her stomach at the prospect. ‘What do you think she will do?’ she whispered, folding her arms tight across her middle.
He saw the panic shift across her delicate features, the haunting look in her eyes. ‘You mustn’t be frightened, Alinor. Eustace has no power at Knighton. You are safe. Once we tell the Queen what has happened, I suspect she will send her soldiers to bring him and your stepmother here to answer the accusations face to face.’
‘And will I have to be there?’
‘Maybe.’ But I will be there too, he thought. He would make sure of it.
Chapter Thirteen
The water was hot, fragrant and delicious. Plumes of steam rose up from the circular wooden bathtub, wreathing around Alinor’s head. Shifting her hips, she wriggled down into the water, the linen cloth that lined the tub soft against her bare skin, protecting her from splinters. Heated liquid lapped against her neck. The accumulated tension in her body eased, the worries about Bianca, about Eustace; all temporarily flew away and her mind emptied gradually until all she was left with was...Guilhem.
Bianca’s words still haunted her. What had happened to him in France? To be locked up and left to die; why, she couldn’t even begin to imagine how horrific that must have been. Would she ever be brave enough to ask him about it? She bit her lip, doubt crawling through her heart. She might ask, but he would surely never tell her; why would he? He scarcely knew her.
Beneath the water, she moved the flannel slowly across her breasts, down over her flat stomach. Silky dark lashes fluttered downwards, touching her cheek. Why did her flesh respond in such a way to him, why did the briefest touch of his hand, or the faintest glimpse of his smile, send her heart racing to a pitch that was almost intolerable? She had never lain with a man, she was an innocent, but she wasn’t totally clueless. Even at the very thought of him, her loins gripped with an unbearable longing; she sank down below the waterline, soaking her hair, trying to rid herself of such wayward thoughts, wash them away. She desired him, she wanted him, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.
Spluttering upwards, she pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, blinking rapidly, scrubbing ferociously at her arms, her neck. Lifting one leg, she rubbed the flannel down her calf, over her foot. She would do well to cast such thoughts from her mind. It was obvious he held no such desire for her; he had laughed off his kiss as if it had been a trifle and had left her chamber so abruptly at Claverstock when she was in a state of undress, it was obvious that he couldn’t stand the sight of her. Aye, he was kind, and had helped her after Eustace’s attack, but, as he had rightly stated, any man, any knight in his situation would have done the same for her, out of chivalric duty.
She would present her predicament to the Queen; she didn’t need him nursemaiding her all the while. Up to now, she had managed perfectly well alone, priding herself on her own reliance. Wilhelma’s behaviour with Bianca, the episode with Eustace—both had shocked her, set her back temporarily, but now...now she felt stronger, more able to deal confidently with her stepmother and brother again. Guilhem’s quiet, laid-back energy drew her, his sheer physicality supported her, but she had begun to rely on him too much. It would make it far harder for her when they inevitably parted.
Her heart squeezed and she shoved the odd feeling of loss right to the back of her mind. Clambering to her feet, she stood up out of the tub, water sluicing down her slim, elegant limbs, and grabbed the towel that had been placed on a stool next to the bath. She could fight her own battles. Stepping out of the tub, she rubbed the woven linen briskly over her body, bending her head so her wet hair trailed forward, the curling ends touching the rug beneath her bare toes. She rubbed the towel through her hair, soaking up the moisture. Throwing her hair back, she wrapped herself in the towel’s rough folds, tucking it securely in the shadowed hollow between her breasts.
Outside the lattice window, the sun crested the low horizon. Padding over to the deep-set glass, polished floorboards cool against her feet, she peered out to the western gatehouse, a red-roofed building, walls white-plastered like the rest of the palace. Through a pointed archway, a steady stream of carts, horsemen, knights and peasants made their way in and out of the inner bailey: carts laden with felled oak, peasants carrying fierce-looking scythes across their shoulders, silver blades flashing in the sunlight; children, dogs, weaving in and out of people’s legs.
The days were shortening now, readying themselves for the dark days of winter. And yet it would be hours until the evening feasting, when Guilhem would present Bianca and herself to the Queen. Her eyes strayed to the four-poster bed, made up with fresh linens and furs. A charcoal brazier crackled merrily in one corner, filling the chamber with a glorious heat. She yawned, wriggling her shoulders, shaking out her towel-dried hair down her back. Should she dress and visit Bianca in the next chamber? But the mattress was substantial, inviting, stuffed tight and full with horsehair
, the pillows plumped with downy goose feathers. Guilhem had said they should rest. Clad in the towel, her shoulders bare, Alinor rolled on to the bed, and closed her eyes. Slept.
* * *
‘Guilhem, you are telling me the truth, aren’t you?’ Sitting by the fire in her private chambers, Queen Eleanor narrowed her eyes at her favourite knight, sprawling languidly in the chair opposite her. He had been a good friend to her son for a long time, ever since they had trained as knights together; Guilhem was as much a part of her household as Prince Edward. ‘It sounds so unbelievable that Wilhelma of Claverstock would attempt to murder your sister, so that her own stepdaughter could marry her son.’ Lines of concern creased her smooth, white forehead.
Guilhem surveyed the veining in the marble column on one side of the fireplace, the intricate over-mantel with tiny figures carved along its length to represent the twelve months of the year. He stuck one leg out, flexing his foot towards Eleanor’s russet gown, the flowing hem decorated with delicate flowers worked in gold thread. ‘Unfortunately, I believe it all to be true. Bianca wouldn’t lie about something like this.’ And neither would Alinor, he thought, a pair of huge green eyes moving vividly across his vision.
He sprung from the chair, striding over to the window, a pair of narrow panes bisected by a fluted stone column. The glass between the lead latticing was etched with silver, a trailing pattern of ivy leaves and honeysuckle. From here, he could see the great hall with its red-glazed coxcomb ridge tiles, the conical roof of the kitchens and, closer by, the building that housed the guest chambers, where Bianca and Alinor were. He hoped they were resting. Alinor’s head had drooped once or twice since she had almost fallen off her horse with tiredness. But to insist that she rode with him would have placed her delicious body against him, and, in truth, he wasn’t sure he could bear such temptation. Far safer that she rode her own horse, even if there was a danger of her crashing to the ground.
Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical) Page 15