Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  She twitched away from the basin, gathering up her cloak. She would do this thing for Edward, without demeaning herself any further with Guilhem. She could resist him, she had to resist him, otherwise she would go mad with longing and every kiss would make it worse, more unbearable. She hoped they would find Simon de Montfort quickly and then she could settle back into a quiet life at the Priory, away from any distractions.

  As she descended the spiral staircase to the great hall, bars of strong sunlight poured through the arrow slits, lighting the confined space. Her hand brushed lightly along the curving metal banister, keeping her step sure and true. On the threshold of the hall, she hesitated, amazed by the amount of people crowding along the trestles; of course, it was still harvest time and the peasants had to be out early in the fields, gathering in the crops. In front of her on the high dais, Edward and Guilhem stood, heads bent over a square piece of parchment, a map, spread across the width of the table. The tablecloth from the previous evening had been removed and now the polished wood was revealed, chestnut-hued and glossy. Of the Queen and Bianca, there was no sign.

  Catching her wavering movement in the archway, Edward looked up, a faint sneer curling his upper lip. Guilhem smiled at her. Her heart flipped stupidly.

  ‘Er...I’ll go and wake Bianca,’ she said, backing away, unwilling to be closeted with the two men. Although she hated to admit it, Prince Edward scared her.

  ‘No, come here, girl,’ Edward barked. ‘I’ll tell you of our plan. I was about to tell Guilhem and I don’t want to repeat it.’

  Reluctantly, she edged forward to stand next to Guilhem, inhaling the piquant scent of horseflesh. A stray length of straw clung to his braies—had he been to the stables already? Close to him, her heart jumped with treacherous awareness, but she forced herself to concentrate on the lines and squiggles of the map.

  ‘Knighton Palace is here,’ Edward was saying, jabbing the parchment with one long finger. His knuckles were oddly prominent: white and knobbly. ‘And I have a feeling that de Montfort is somewhere around here, based on what my spies have told me.’ He circled an area on the parchment.

  ‘That’s an area covering some ten square miles,’ said Guilhem drily. ‘And most of it forest. Have you nothing more definite?’

  ‘If I had then I would have him by now!’ Edward snapped. ‘And my father would be back in his rightful place, back on the throne of England!’

  A thread of fear pulsed through Alinor at the Prince’s volatile reaction. Guilhem’s arm skimmed against hers; it might have been in error, but she drew confidence from his mistaken touch, from that discreet strength coiled in his muscled forearm.

  ‘Calm down, Edward,’ Guilhem said. ‘I will probably be able to narrow the search area, eliminate the places where he would not strike camp. Here, for example, a vast flood plain of marsh and inhospitable ground; he would not go there.’

  ‘Good man.’ Edward slapped Guilhem on the back. ‘Keep going like that and you’ll have him.’ He switched his watery gaze to Alinor. ‘And you, young lady, do exactly what Guilhem tells you to do. I am sending six knights with you as escort, but when you find the camp, you will go in with Guilhem alone with a message for your father that your stepmother is very ill and he must come home immediately. That way Guilhem can get close to de Montfort and bring him out with a knife in his neck. No one will dare to stop them.’

  ‘But Guilhem will be captured the moment they see him wearing the King’s colours,’ Alinor gasped out. Her heart hollowed; she couldn’t believe she had agreed to such an outrageous plan, but what choice did she have? ‘He’ll be taken prisoner.’

  ‘Ah, no.’ Edward wagged his finger at her. ‘Guilhem will be dressed as a peasant and act as your manservant. They will not suspect a thing; a lady of quality travelling alone would naturally have some sort of bodyguard. He’s big and burly enough to act the part.’ He started to fold up the map, failed, then pushed the mess of crumpled parchment irritably into Guilhem’s chest. ‘Sort that out, will you? Where’s my mother? Where’s breakfast?’ He threw his lanky frame into a nearby chair, fed up with the minutiae of the whole affair. ‘I’m famished.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  In contrast to the previous day, the stiff wind had dissipated, the bright sunshine blotted away; the air was surprisingly muggy. A low band of cloud pressed down on the land. Hazy clusters of midges rose up from the muddy track as Guilhem and Alinor rode in a north-westerly direction, three soldiers in front and three soldiers behind. The further Alinor drew away from Knighton Palace, the greater her sense of relief; the Queen was expecting the arrival of her stepmother and Eustace and she had no wish to face them and become embroiled in the retelling of Wilhelma’s crime.

  Bianca had been tearful, clingy, when she had finally descended into the great hall that morning; after breaking their fast together, Guilhem had hugged his sister, reassuring her again that she had the best escort back to France. Bianca was due to leave that day and ride towards the port on the south coast. A ship would carry her back home on the high tide in the evening. But Bianca’s fingers had gripped Alinor’s tightly as she rose to leave. A wave of sadness passed over Alinor; in the past few days, Guilhem’s sister had been a good friend to her. Would they ever see each other again?

  She peeked at Guilhem, surprised at the difference in his appearance now he wore rough peasant clothes. He still wore his fawn woollen leggings and calf-leather boots, but the richly embroidered blue surcoat had been replaced by a square-cut tunic of mud-coloured wool, coarsely woven and ripped in some places, patched up in others. One sleeve was coming adrift at the shoulder, the stitches stretched and pulling. He wore a short cape and hood, pushed back to fall in stout gathers at the nape of his neck. All the trappings of his profession had disappeared: the chainmail, the helmet, even his sword and scabbard, replaced with a short knife stuck into the leather belt around his waist. But even wearing such clothes, there was no mistaking his size and power—the tunic stretched across his bulky shoulders and ended at mid-thigh, revealing the bunched strength in his long, lean legs.

  ‘Where did you find those clothes?’ Alinor asked, breaking the long silence between them. Guilhem seemed content to ride without conversation, but she felt jittery, unsure in his presence, not knowing how she stood with him, or even what he really thought about her.

  He turned his head. The grey-lit day dulled his burnished hair to dark gold. ‘One of the kitchen servants has a husband about the same size as me,’ he explained. ‘It wasn’t difficult.’

  ‘You look so different from your normal self...’ She trailed off, unsure. As if by making a comment upon his outward appearance, her words became too intimate, too personal. Above her, a blackbird trilled, singing its melancholy tune on a swaying branch. What was she trying to say? That he seemed more approachable, without the fearsome accoutrements of war? She knotted her hands into the bridle, sticking her heels down firmly in the iron stirrups, lacking the confidence to finish her sentence.

  He laughed, throwing his head back. ‘I’m not sure what you consider my normal self to be, Alinor. All I know is that I reek to high heaven of soil and sweat. And not my own, which makes it all the more unpleasant.’ His midnight eyes glittered with amusement.

  She smiled at him, a soft tilt to the corner of her mouth. ‘I can’t smell anything.’

  His heart lurched. God, how beautiful she was: that faint rose tint to her cheeks, her lush rosebud mouth. ‘Then either there’s something wrong with your nose, or you’re just being polite,’ he shot back, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.

  Her heart warmed beneath his teasing, a great slug of air releasing suddenly from her chest. This was fine; she could do this, she could be with him and maintain this easy camaraderie as long as they kept a reasonable distance from each other.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she admitted, pressing her hands down on the horse�
�s neck to raise her weight, adjusting her hips in the leather saddle. ‘I was just being polite.’ She rode astride, the position providing better balance with her damaged arm; her long skirts hung down on each side of the horse, wings of gathered cloth. Flicking her skirts down, her fingers brisk, decisive, she furrowed her brow. ‘Smelly or not, do you think it will work? Do you think we can get into de Montfort’s camp?’

  He read the anxiety in the pale, wan lines of her face. Guilt swam over him for taking her into such a potentially dangerous situation, one to which he was accustomed and to which she was not. ‘Look, Alinor, I don’t like this plan one little bit, but I think it will work.’

  ‘Will Edward really kill Simon de Montfort?’ she murmured, low enough for the others not to hear.

  ‘No,’ Guilhem replied. ‘His bark is far worse than his bite. He will keep him prisoner until the King is released.’ He grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, he will also do the same with your father.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’ Her voice held a strange hollowness.

  ‘Eustace and your stepmother will already be...with the Queen.’

  ‘You mean locked up.’ Alinor paused. ‘It doesn’t matter. I...I know you are shocked, that I should be more upset by the thought of them being punished...but all I can feel is a sense of relief.’

  ‘I’m not shocked.’ Guilhem’s voice hardened. ‘It’s completely understandable after what they have done to you.’

  ‘My father has done nothing.’

  ‘He has failed to protect you.’ Or even care for you, he thought.

  She read the kindness in his face and her heart scythed with raw poignancy. ‘Don’t pity me, Guilhem. Please. After all of this, I will be all right, truly.’

  Throwing him a bright smile, she tapped her heels into her horse’s rump and trotted away from him, down a narrow path which prevented him from riding alongside her. He fell behind, staring at the slim, narrow curve of her spine, the gentle indent of her waist.

  I don’t pity you, Alinor, he thought. I love you.

  * * *

  They rode for hours, skirting possible areas where the de Montfort army might be, riding up steep hills to scan the vast expanse of countryside for any telling signs of a gathered army: trails of smoke, the white canvas of tents, the flash of chainmail, or sword. So far, nothing. Not a trace. Alinor’s muscles were cramped and sore from having been in the saddle for most of the day; she wondered if she would even be able to dismount. At last, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time, Guilhem raised his arm and called a halt to the soldiers. They had stopped in a forest clearing, the sound of water nearby, a sparse covering of spindly grass, luminous green in a pool of light.

  ‘We’ll stop here for the night,’ he announced, swinging down easily from his horse. Leading the animal to the edge of the clearing, he looped the reins over a low branch. Wilting with tiredness, Alinor listened to him rapping out orders to the soldiers: make a fire, prepare some food, tend to the horses. The business of setting up camp was second nature to him and his commands held the underlying ease of habit. Alinor rubbed at her eyes, gritty with dust from the road; the dirt seemed driven into the fine pores on her face. Mixed with a faint sheen of sweat, it made her skin feel claggy.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked, lifting her head slowly as Guilhem approached.

  ‘Well, dismounting would be a good start.’ She looked completely exhausted, he thought. Purpling lines of fatigue extended down from the corners of her eyes; her body curved forward in the saddle, drooping before his gaze. They had ridden too far and too fast for her, he realised, a pall of shame washing over him. He should have taken more care of her, looked out for her. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Of course!’ she flashed back. Placing her hands on the horse’s mane, she leaned forward, attempting to swing her right leg backwards over the horse’s rump. Her muscles screamed out in agony; she gave a tiny hiss of pain. Why did this have to happen, now, in front of Guilhem? ‘I need some time to do this,’ she said, irritably. ‘You go off and do whatever it is you have to do.’

  ‘Place your hands on my shoulders—’ he ignored her words ‘—and I will help you. You’ve been riding all day and you’re not used to it. Sore muscles are nothing to be ashamed of.’

  Annoyed, she glowered at the frothing mane of her palfrey, then shrugged her shoulders, admitting defeat. Twisting in the saddle, she positioned her hands on his wide shoulders. Circling her waist with his hands, he lifted her off gently, easily, setting her down on her feet in front of him.

  ‘Ouch!’ she cried out, clutching on to him as her feet hit the ground. It was as if someone had hammered metal rods down the back of each leg. ‘That hurts.’

  He grimaced. ‘Keep flexing your muscles,’ he advised. ‘They should become less sore over the course of the evening.’ What she really needed was a hot bath. It wasn’t right that he should be dragging her about the countryside in this heathen fashion; she was not a soldier, born and bred into this way of life, she was a lady. What on earth had Edward been thinking when he had set her on this course? What had he been thinking, ever to agree to it?

  ‘Come and sit by the fire,’ he said, ‘and have something to eat. It might make you feel better.’

  Well, she doubted it could make her feel worse. To her utter chagrin, she found she had to place a hand on Guilhem’s arm to even be able to walk over to the spot where the soldiers had lit the fire. Smoke curled up through the gap in the tree canopy from the pile of damp wood like a messy skein of white-grey wool, spitting fretfully. She sank jerkily to the blanket that someone had spread on the ground, gritting her teeth against her screaming muscles, throwing an ashen smile to the soldier tending the fire.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured up to Guilhem. He had lowered her down as if his arm was a rope and she still clung to it. She dropped her hand, kneading her fingers into her lap. ‘I’ve never known riding to be quite so painful before!’ She laughed half-heartedly, trying to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘We covered a lot of ground today, Alinor. You did well.’

  ‘What you mean is; I did well for a woman.’

  ‘No,’ he said frowning. ‘You did well. Full stop. Look at the men around you—they’re all tired out.’

  For the first time, she glanced round the camp. Guilhem was correct. His soldiers all lay around the camp in various stages of relaxation—some lying completely flat on their backs with their eyes closed, some seated, talking quietly with their companions.

  She tipped her head up at him, tilting it slightly: the faintest sign of agreement.

  ‘You see?’ He smiled down at her. ‘You don’t need any excuse for how you feel. It’s normal to feel tired after a day like this, it’s not a weakness.’ God, most women would have started to complain after the first hour or two of riding this morning. Alinor had been in the saddle for the whole day.

  She shrugged her shoulders, staring doubtfully into the fitful flames. ‘If you say so.’ Why was he being so nice to her? It made him harder to deal with; her heart flared beneath the gentle admiration in his voice.

  ‘I do say so, Alinor.’ He laughed at her uncertain expression. ‘Stop being so hard on yourself. You have done well today; you should take pride in that.’

  She shivered, wrapping her cloak more firmly about her, trying to damp down the surge of happiness that rose within her at his praise. ‘You’d better stop now,’ she said, ‘otherwise all this flattery might go to my head.’

  He hunkered down beside her, surprisingly graceful for such a big man, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. ‘You deserve it, Alinor. Now, have something to eat and then you can sleep.’

  * * *

  A large, jagged stone poked uncomfortably into Alinor’s right shoulder. Maybe that was what had woken her? Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she rolled over on to her left s
ide, hoping to find a more accommodating spot on the lumpy ground. Her hands gripped the edges of her cloak, wrapping it more securely across her body, and she held her arms in a cross-wise fashion across her chest, hoping it might be warmer that way. Her toes were freezing, the chill night air sneaking through the thin leather of her slippers, her fine silk stockings. In the process of rolling over, the edge of her cloak had become caught beneath her hip; she sighed in frustration, reluctantly tugging it back into place. She had to go to sleep! She must! But even as she closed her eyes, her mind worked frantically, scooting along runnels of worrying thoughts, haphazard, annoying.

  An owl hooted suddenly, breaking the sifting silence of the woodland.

  Irritated, disheartened by her inability to sleep, Alinor sat up abruptly, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins. A small kernel of flame still burned in the centre of the fire, a trail of smoke rising listlessly. Her eyes swept the camp, struggled to focus on the sleeping shapes around her; the earlier cloud had cleared away and the moon, a slim curved wedge, hung low in the star-studded sky. All around her the soldiers slept, rolled on the ground in their cloaks, breaking the silence with stuttering snores, occasional mutterings in their sleep. She envied them their dreams, their blissful unconsciousness.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  She lurched forward in shock, jumping at the familiar voice behind her. Hunching around, she saw Guilhem a few feet away, his back propped against the trunk of a giant oak, one knee raised.