April Munday

by His Ransom

  He chuckled and she felt the rumble through the whole of her body. It awoke something deep within her and she lifted a hand to steady herself against his chest. He must be cold, for it seemed to her that he shivered as she touched him. “A bad dream indeed.” His skin felt cold beneath her fingers. Was he ill? Had he made himself ill by carrying her all that way? He had been so warm when she had touched him before. Involuntarily her fingers moved as if she had intended to caress him. He breathed in sharply with a hiss and she came to herself.

  “Why are you here?” Finally coming completely to her senses, she realised that Richard should not be in her bedchamber and should definitely not be sitting on her bed holding her close and caressing her in his present state of undress.

  “My teacher is giving me a practical lesson in caring for the sick, but she was not strong enough to restrain you when you started to scream.” She could tell that he had meant to make light of the situation, but beneath the attempted humour there was a deep concern for her well-being.

  “Margaret…”

  “I am here, Rosamunde. Do not fear that I would leave you alone with such a brute.” Although she joked there was an edge to her voice, which Richard seemed to understand as well for he released Rosamunde and gently lowered her back onto the bed. Margaret could not have seen him caressing her or she would surely have stopped him.

  “I am sorry to have given you such a scare,” she apologised.

  “It was to be expected. These last few days have not been easy.” How odd that his voice seemed less real now that she could not feel it through her own body. She felt as if some sense had been removed from her.

  Margaret took Richard’s place beside Rosamunde and handed her a cup. The contents were hot and Rosamunde sipped gingerly. She looked at Richard, who was still naked from the waist up. Despite the state of his leg, his upper body was strong and well-muscled. His skin was much darker than her own she noted before she looked up to his face.

  “You should leave,” she spoke more sharply than she had intended. He was far too dangerous to be in her bedchamber. He had robbed her of any ability to think clearly.

  His eyes had expressed concern, but now they became so hard that she had to look away.

  “Of course, my lady. I shall be outside, should you need me.”

  She heard the door close and looked up to find Margaret’s searching gaze on her.

  “He did the right thing,” she said gently.

  “I know. I was tired… I am so tired.” And confused.

  “Then sleep.” Margaret seemed to condemn and forgive in the same breath. “The potion should help and you will have sweet dreams.” Margaret sat beside her and smoothed her cool palm over Rosamunde’s forehead.

  But Rosamunde did not think she would ever have sweet dreams again. She was in love with a man who had nothing and who was less than nothing and whose only purpose in life, it seemed, was to die to prevent her own death. What he felt for her, she had no idea, but she doubted he could love her. He had seemed amused by her confusion and so distant. As she fell back into a fitful sleep Rosamunde found once again that she was looking at the dead body of the man who had become so dear to her.

  Rosamunde kept to her bed for the rest of the day. She did not want to appear weak before the castle’s inhabitants, but it was better that they think her ill, than that they know she had fainted from fear of what might happen. Surprisingly she slept for most of the afternoon, drifting in and out of the dream in which she discovered Richard’s dead and bloodied body. At one point she woke up drenched in sweat to find Margaret calmly wiping her face. Margaret avoided looking her in the eye and Rosamunde wondered if she had spoken as she slept, or worse, called out Richard’s name in her fear, but she was too tired to worry about it and it did not seem that important. What was important was that she was so cold. Perhaps she was dying of fear. Richard came to see her in the evening, but otherwise she had only Margaret’s company. She did not know where the day had gone. She had drifted in and out of sleep. She could remember very little of it, but it had been light when she had taken to her bed and now it was dark.

  At least she could concentrate. Her fear had subsided a little and she could think of other things. Richard was subdued and she knew it was because he thought her weak for entertaining Sir Walter as a guest, but she had done it and it could not be undone. He sat silently beside her bed. She wondered how long he had been there before she became aware of him. She also wondered why he had come and not Thomas or Guy. Of course, they thought she was ill and would not think to disturb her. Only Richard knew the truth.

  “Thank you,” she said finally.

  “For what?” He was surprised.

  “For bringing me to my bedchamber.”

  “Would you have had me leave you lying in a passage for anyone to find?”

  She tried to smile at the small joke, but could not. Despite sleeping for most of the afternoon she still felt very tired.

  “I should not have been so weak.”

  Richard shook his head. “Margaret says it is some kind of winter sickness that you are susceptible to here in the north. You have a slight fever. It is nothing to worry about.”

  “I am ill?” She must be, or the explanation for her dizziness would have been obvious to her.

  Richard smiled. “I do not think you are the kind of woman who would faint because she did not sleep well.”

  She realised that he spoke the truth, he did not think the worst of her because she had fainted into his arms. Now that she thought about it Rosamunde realised that she had had a sore throat and a slight headache that morning. She was relieved that she was not weak after all, but then a new thought took her and she opened her mouth to voice it, but could not say it.

  “I was afraid it was something much worse,” Richard admitted, as if he had not noticed her try to speak. “But Margaret says it is very common and that we shall see much of it before the winter is out.”

  This was Rosamunde’s own fear. Since the Big Death every cough, sneeze and fever had been considered a possible forerunner to another plague, but she would have other symptoms by now, so she accepted that Margaret knew what was wrong with her. They had both seen enough people die from it to know the symptoms.

  “I am grateful to you. I was ungracious earlier.”

  “No, you were right. It was not seemly for me to be here in such a state of undress.” He smoothed his tunic unconsciously as he turned away from her towards Margaret and she was surprised to see that his face reddened. Margaret frowned at him and he turned back to Rosamunde. She saw that the smile he had forced onto his face was not genuine.

  “Do my people know that I will soon be well?”

  “Yes. They are worried, but Thomas and Guy are doing their best.”

  Rosamunde sank back into the bed. Even this short conversation had wearied her. Richard stood to leave.

  “Something has been worrying me,” she said, reaching out her hand to him, which he took, absently, in his own.

  He smiled and sat again. “What?”

  She hesitated. “I had a dream. Everyone was dead, but me.”

  Richard frowned and began to stroke her hand as absently as he had taken it. “That will not happen, Rosamunde.” She tried to suppress the shiver of excitement that ran through her body at his touch, but knew that she had failed when she looked into his eyes.

  “Teach me to defend myself.”

  Richard said nothing, but he released her hand as if he had suddenly become aware that he was touching her and his eyes glinted darkly. “You know that he will have to get through Thomas and Guy and me to reach you.”

  “I know. I also know that we are a small garrison. Should he breach the walls there will be no hope.”

  Richard gnawed at his lower lip in indecision and took her hand again. Rosamunde was distracted for a moment. It was almost as if he thought he had the right to touch her like this.

  “There is no need to lie to me,” she continued. “I hav
e eyes and I can count.”

  “Very well. You should know I would never lie to you Rosamunde. You are correct. As long as we can keep him outside we are safe, but should he enter the castle his numbers will doubtless be overwhelming.”

  “Then I wish to be able to defend myself.”

  “You should discuss this with Thomas…”

  “No! I am discussing it with you. I would rather Thomas believed in my ignorance.” Rosamunde bit her lip. Richard was her equal and she was talking to him as if he were a servant.

  Richard looked doubtful. “Thomas is not stupid and he is not blind,” he echoed her own statement with a smile.

  “Nonetheless, I should like you to teach me and to hide it from Thomas and Guy.”

  He was staring at her hand as if he had just realised that he was holding it and she thought for moment that he would release her. Instead he squeezed her hand gently. “As you wish. But they will find out.”

  “I am sure they will. It is a small garrison after all. But I would hide it from them as long as possible.”

  He thought for a moment more. “We will begin when you are well again. In the morning.” This time she let him go.

  Rosamunde was satisfied. She did not know whether the idea had sprung from fear of what Sir Walter might do or from a desire to spend even more time with Richard. It mattered not; it was done. All she had to do now was to rest in her bed for a day or so and get well.

  Richard did not know what to think or where to go to think it. At home he would have got on his horse and left his father’s castle and gone to his favourite place a long way down the river. It was a sheltered place far away from the road between Avignon and Montpelier. No one would stumble across him there and he could lose himself in his thoughts. He could spend hours there and no one would trouble him. He had spent hours there after his marriage to Louise and again after her death. It had become almost hallowed to him. And now he missed it. For the first time he felt sick for his home and everything that separated him from it. Never had it seemed so far away and never had he realised so forcefully that he could not go back. It was more than the physical distance of the British Sea and the kingdom of France. It was also his father’s cupidity and Poitiers and Rosamunde, mainly, as he was coming to understand, Rosamunde. If he had been in Charimaux he could have sat by the river and thought about her for hours and then he would have known what to do, as he had known what to do about Louise. For Rosamunde was definitely a problem to be solved.

  Here there was nowhere he could be alone. Since Margaret was with Rosamunde he did not even have the sanctuary of the still-room. He did not have a key and did not want to go back to Rosamunde’s chamber to ask for it. Anyway, he doubted Margaret would hand over the key. Something had changed in her attitude the day before and he did not want a confrontation with one of the few people in the castle who had accepted him. He did not want to draw attention to himself by roaming about the castle, so he made his way to the chapel, certain that it would be empty at this time of day. The duke had built the small chapel as a sign of gratitude that he and his heir had survived the Big Death. It was small, intended for his own use and that of his immediate family. There was a small church just outside the walls for the garrison and their women and it was there that Richard had attended Mass two days ago.

  Richard did not pay much attention to the chapel, although he did notice that the two longer walls bore paintings contrasting life and death. Richard lowered himself gingerly to the floor and leant against the wall depicting death, stretching his leg out in front of him. Despite his protestations to the contrary, carrying Rosamunde to her chamber had caused him a lot of pain and he had not felt that he could distract Margaret from caring for Rosamunde long enough to ask her for a draught of something to make it easier. But it was not the pain that concerned him now, it was the look he had seen in Rosamunde’s eyes and when he had taken her hand. It was unfair, he knew. She was ill and not fully in control of herself, but he was sure that he had seen desire. He was thrilled and disappointed in equal measure. He was disappointed because she had finally shown herself to be no different from all other women. Everywhere he had gone women had thrown themselves in his way and proven themselves not to be worth his consideration. Now he could apparently number Rosamunde among them. He was thrilled because there was still just a chance that she was the woman he was searching for, but it was also unlikely and even if she was, there was nothing he could do about it. He was the enemy and he had nothing. Whenever he had thought about that particular woman, the one he could marry, in the past, he had been the son of a count. However small his inheritance might be from his father he would still have his name and his ability to fight the English to offer to his wife. Now he had nothing. His father had disowned him, his name meant nothing and he could no longer fight. Fighting the English had seemed so easy in Provence. In Sussex it seemed futile.

  There was also the matter of teaching Rosamunde to defend herself to consider. He knew that they would be found out and he did not want to make an enemy of Thomas. He doubted anything he did would change Guy’s opinion of him, but he valued Thomas’ good opinion and had hoped that they could become friends. This would destroy any possibility of friendship between them.

  Despite himself he had to admit that Rosamunde was being sensible. If Sir Walter had not had to send any men to France, as Thomas had indicated, he would be able to send a sizeable force to Corchester. Richard was confident that the walls would hold for some time and the siege would surely end with the duke’s arrival from France. He and Thomas had discussed sending out the garrison when the men from Dorset arrived to fight with them, but Thomas had said that only a few would come and neither of them had wanted to risk the security of the castle. Richard wondered why Thomas had sent for them, but Thomas would not say. There was a chance that the siege would last long enough for Sir Walter to force his way into the castle, then Rosamunde would have to know how to defend herself.

  He would have to find a suitable place where he could be alone with Rosamunde without being discovered. The still-room was private, but too small. All the large rooms were public. Perhaps Rosamunde had somewhere in mind. He knew the castle well by now and could not think of anywhere that offered the necessary secrecy. The chapel was large enough, but it would be sacrilegious.

  Then there was the matter of what he would teach her and how. This day had taught him that he was not immune to her touch and they would have to touch if he was to teach her. Margaret would be there, so he would not be able to give in to his lusts even if they got the better of him. Nonetheless, he would have to touch her to show her how to hold herself and how to hold her knife. He assumed she would prefer to use a knife. He felt his body warm at the thought of touching her again. It had been one thing to hold her when she had been insensible, it would be another when she was in full possession of her senses.

  He leant his head back against the wall. He did not want to find that Rosamunde was like all other women. He did not want to know that she could be seduced by a soft word and a strong body. Until today he had almost succeeded in convincing himself that she was a virtuous woman, except he knew that such a woman did not exist. He had not realised how much he had hoped that she was virtuous until that hope had been dashed.

  He pulled his hand across his eyes. No! All hope had not been lost. She had behaved properly when she had seen him come inside from the courtyard almost naked. She had turned away and not stared at him as that wanton Berthe would have done. He had been the one to touch her and hold her. She had done nothing. He had taken her into his arms while she was still firm on her feet and he had held her closer than he needed. He could have held her securely without any need for her to put her arms around his neck, but it had brought their bodies closer and he had wanted it, so he had demanded it. And he had enjoyed it.

  No, hope was not dead. She had not enticed him. He coloured as he remembered sitting on her bed caressing her when she had woken from her dream. She had not asked
him to do it; he had not been able to stop himself. He would have to be careful. She was not his and could not be his. He had not understood until today how much he was attracted to her. But he had been sent to protect Rosamunde, not to lust after her. And he did lust after her. No woman since Louise had exerted such a pull on him. Lust seemed such a mundane description of what he felt, but he could not deny that that was all it was. She seemed to be the very thing he had thought could not exist – a virtuous woman. Experience had taught him that women were not virtuous. Many times he had thought that he had found one, only to be disappointed by the ease with which they could be seduced.

  But Rosamunde had done nothing to make him think she could be seduced. Fleetingly, he considered trying to seduce her, but he did not want to put their growing friendship at risk. She was learning to trust him and he was learning to trust her. Seducing her would not encourage her to trust him; not that he wasn’t tempted. She was beautiful and intelligent and everything about her was pleasing.

  And now he had to spend even more time with her. Her intelligence and common sense made her just the kind of woman that he would have sought had he still been in a position to do so. Such a woman would give him strong, healthy heirs. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. He could have no heirs; there was nothing to inherit. His time in the duke’s castle would pass much easier if he could only remember that he was a penniless cripple. Worse, he was the enemy. His king was a prisoner of the English king and he could not afford to forget it. Then he smiled. It would not have occurred to him to compare himself to the king in his former life, but now he saw that they had suffered the same fate. He assumed, however, that King Jean had found better accommodation and was not expected to give his life to save the virgin daughter of his captor. He balled his hands into fists and pushed them hard against his knees. No, he did not know that. He knew nothing about Rosamunde except that he desired her. She had been betrothed to Simon for some time before he went to France. Richard dragged himself to his feet. He could not think of Rosamunde like this. It would be better to assume that her husband had claimed his rights before he left. He left the chapel, not bothering to wonder why it pained him so much to think that Rosamunde might not be a virgin.