by June Francis
She drew back into the shadows and remained there for several minutes, remembering how the man had questioned her and the fool’s errand she had sent him on. After a few minutes, she could bear the suspense no longer and, peeping out of the window, was relieved to see no sign of him. Perhaps in her weary and heightened state of excitement, she had truly imagined a vision of the saint. She shook herself and, without more ado, left the sleeping quarters.
Kate joined those crowding into the cathedral for the service and then afterwards became part of the massed throng singing and dancing in the square. There was wine and food to be bought from stalls in the streets: fish cooked on charcoal braziers, octopus stew, and scallops braised in their shells, as well as the most delicious-looking honey and almond tarts. She could only drool over the food, knowing she would have to make do with a simple supper at the hostel that evening.
Then, some time during the afternoon, Kate lost touch with her companions and the weather changed; thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning flashed across the sky. A westerly wind rose, sweeping in the rain from the distant sea, taking the hat from Kate’s head and carrying it over the roof tops. The crowds dispersed and headed for shelter.
Lamenting the loss of her hat, Kate entered the hostel in a rush. Her flaxen hair was plastered to her head and her sodden tunic heavy and cold against her skin. She started when she saw the man sitting on a bench in the hall. He had a cloak slung over his shoulders and his strong body was clad in a coney-trimmed black cotehardie; his long legs encased in red hose were stretched out before him. His nostrils flared and his finely drawn mouth lifted at the corners in a sardonic smile as his eyes lighted on her.
‘Master Fletcher, I presume?’ His voice was silky soft.
Kate was already feeling light-headed with hunger, but as he rose to his feet, apprehension caused her head to spin. She tried to speak, but no words came and the next moment it was as if a dark pit opened up and swallowed her.
Owain uttered an oath and caught her before she reached the ground. He swung her up into his arms and was instantly aware of soft breasts squashed against his chest. The realisation that he held a woman in his arms hit him like a blow to the stomach and, ignoring the clamour about them, he carried her out of the hostel and across the Plaza. Already the rain was easing off, but he was barely conscious of it as he hurried between porticoed buildings of golden granite, along the deserted ruas. She shifted in his grasp and he felt a stirring in his loins. ‘Keep still,’ he ordered, his voice rough.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Kate sat up in his arms. The action brought his shaven chin and his lips but a few inches from her mouth. Incredulously she found herself wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by him. Immediately on the heels of that thought came the words, This man could be set on my destruction. Instantly she began to struggle.
‘I will drop you if you don’t keep still. You lied to me and sent me on a fruitless journey.’ His words lashed her. ‘For that I should beat you.’
‘I feared you. Let me down,’ she gasped.
‘That would serve no purpose in the circumstances. Lady or maid, I’m taking you to my lodgings and there we will talk.’
His words caused her heart to somersault. ‘I do not have anything to say. I don’t know how Sir Roger died and nor do I wish to know.’
Owain gazed into the tawny fringed blue-green eyes, wide with fear, and pity smote him to the heart. ‘Then you have nothing to be frightened of. Trust me,’ he said gently, still unsure who it was that he held in his arms. He knew both, the Lady Catherine and the younger Mistress Fletcher, to be fair haired. This woman’s voice was well modulated, but then he had been informed by Sir Thomas that young Mistress Fletcher was no common maid. ‘Tell me who are you?’ he asked.
Looking up into his strongly jawed face Kate estimated him to have lived twenty-five summers. She decided that it might be best to keep silence for the moment, so she pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head.
He scowled. ‘You will tell me, but I’ll be patient until we reach shelter,’ he said under his breath.
Kate did not like the sound of that, but could see no way of escaping him. Perhaps once they reached his lodging there might be a chance. They came to an inn and he carried her through an arched opening into a paved courtyard, where a flight of steps, edged with potted plants, led to a door in an upper storey of the building. She protested when he set foot on the bottom step. ‘This is a foolishness! You can’t carry me up there.’ How could she possibly escape if he did not put her down?
He smiled tightly and proceeded up the steps, still carrying her. On reaching the top, he fumbled in the pouch attached to his belt. She struggled to get down, but he clutched her against his chest and somehow managed to open the door. He carried her inside and set her on her feet. She swayed and grasped the back of a nearby chair to steady herself. She refused to meet his eyes, fearing what she might see in them and instead gazed about her, taking in the bed first, which seemed to occupy most of the space.
Her heart pounded. If she confessed to being Kate Fletcher, then perhaps he would bed her. There were so many men who thought little of deflowering one such as herself. She glanced about her for a weapon. At the bed’s foot was a clothing chest and on the whitewashed wall behind the bed hung a crucifix. She decided it would not be right to hit him with that holy object. Her gaze slid to the opposite wall where two hanging poles protruded. She watched him hang his damp cloak on one of the poles before unfastening the leather belt from his waist. From it dangled a sword, which he dropped on the table. He must have seen the expression in her eyes because he said, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’
She flushed and took note of the rest of the table’s contents: a book, an earthenware cup, a candlestick and a jug of wine. His saddlebags were on the floor. There was no fire in the chamber and she was damp and cold. As if from a distance came the noise of what sounded like a swarm of bees, but almost immediately she realised it was the hum of conversation coming through the floor of the taproom below. She guessed it would be full of men and was not tempted to bang on the floor. Shivering in her sodden garment, she watched as her abductor reached for the jug and poured wine into the cup.
‘Here, drink this,’ he said.
She made no move to take the cup. ‘How do I know you haven’t drugged it?’
‘Perhaps you betray yourself by asking that. Maybe Sir Roger was poisoned.’
She made no response to his words.
Owain raised dark eyebrows and, lifting the cup to his lips, drank deeply. Then he refilled the vessel and held it out to her. Still she hesitated and he looked amused. ‘Come. Do I look like a man who needs to drug a woman to bend her to my will? Besides, how would I know you might be here in this bedchamber with me? I can assure you that my intentions are honourable.’
She thought he might not be making such assurances if he knew for sure that she was no lady. Taking the cup, she sipped the wine, whilst watching him over the rim. ‘You have asked who I am, but I would know the name of the man who pursues me,’ she demanded.
‘Pursues?’ He appeared to savour the word and she could not take her eyes from his lips. The nether one was full and beautifully curved, the upper long and clearly defined. ‘I would not use that word. This is not a chase, although your eyes are as beautiful as those of any deer,’ he said softly.
She straightened her drooping shoulders and tilted her chin. ‘You have a silver tongue, sir, but there is no need to flatter me,’ she said with a touch of hauteur. ‘I ask why you seek me?’
Owain smiled. ‘I want answers, as you already know.’
‘Why—why do you—you not answer mi-mine first?’ she asked through teeth that suddenly began to chatter, and she wrapped her arms round herself as if to control her body’s actions. ‘It—it is pr-probably true that I have mor-more to lose if I speak honestly. Are you St-Stanley’s man or have—have you been se-sent by Friar Stephen? Perhaps you are related to the C
-Comte d’Azay? If that is his real name.’
‘D’Azay?’ His dark brows furrowed and then he shrugged. ‘You give me a choice. A foolishness because I could so easily lie to you and how would you know it? I suggest you get out of your wet garments before you catch a chill. Your pilgrimage is at an end and I am taking you to England once you tell me where the rest of your companions are.’
Kate gasped. It would be a relief to be rid of the hated tunic—but to undress here in this chamber with him present? Never. Besides, what could she wear in its stead?
‘I know what you are thinking,’ he murmured. ‘Your eyes betray you. I will provide you with a change of raiment, which will suit you better than that tunic you are wearing.’ He made a move towards her and she would have taken a step back if the wall had not been behind her. He reached out with a single finger to caress her cheek and neck and to touch the pulse that beat at the base of her throat. She jumped as the back of his fingers brushed the upper curve of her breast as he tugged on the drawstring of her tunic.
For a moment she felt as if without breath and had to inhale deeply. Then, thinking if she could convince him that she was the Lady Catherine he was more likely to treat her with respect, she reached up and knocked his hand aside. ‘You forget yourself, sir!’ she said angrily.
He stepped back and bowed slightly. ‘I beg pardon…my lady? Just for a moment I fell under the spell of your…beauty.’
Her eyes glinted. ‘You mock me. With my hair hacked so cruelly I am no beauty. Nor am I an enchantress that I would cast spells. Show me the raiment you speak of and then I demand that you remove yourself from this chamber.’
‘I would hear the tale of how your hair was hacked off,’ he mused, ‘but for now I will humour you.’
Owain went over to the chest and flung back its lid. From its depths he took a black lace mantilla and a linen kirtle with long tight sleeves. Placing both on the bed, he returned to the chest and this time he lifted out a green gown and laid that carefully beside them. Kate stepped forward and fingered the fabric of the gown. The act gave her pleasure, for she was certain it was Venetian cotton. Hadn’t she helped her Lady sew such material on several occasions? Where did he have it from?
She held the gown against her. Its style was like nothing she had seen before. The skirt fell in loose flowing lines from a high waist and tiny black bows fastened up the bodice, which had a plunging V neckline with lace reveres and a collar that curved low round the neck.
‘Where did you get this gown?’ she asked in wonder and delight, lifting her gaze to his face.
Her delight obviously pleased him. ‘I have a friend who is a merchant. He attends all the great fairs: Bruges, Lyon, Venice. By the greatest good fortune I met him in Burgos and by even greater good fortune he’d had several gowns made up for his sister in the latest fashion. I am glad it pleases you.’
‘You bought it from him for me? You were so sure you would find me and yet before you said…’ Her voice was husky with emotion for she had never worn such a gown in her life.
His eyes mocked her. ‘Although I believed you to be Master Fletcher, I hoped he would lead me to the Lady Catherine, his sister and mother. I was vexed with him. Yet I knew his destination and deemed that the reason why he had spoken falsely was most likely due to his protecting someone. I would serve and protect the Lady Catherine, not betray.’
So he wished to serve her Lady, thought Kate. For a moment her grief for her dead mistress was like a weight in her chest. If only the King had wed Catherine to someone other than Sir Roger…a man prepared to protect and not betray…how different both their lives would have been. And yet what was she thinking? She had only this man’s word that he spoke honestly. Was she to trust him just because he had produced a gown and spoke fine words? What should she say? What was she to do? Quickly! She must make up her mind because he was waiting.
‘I thank you, sir, that my behaviour did not give you a distaste for me.’ Her voice was stilted. ‘If you would be so kind as to leave me, I will get out of this damp garment.’ She added, ‘I much appreciate your gift.’
His eyes searched her face, then he bowed slightly and left her alone.
Kate sighed and further loosened the drawstring at the neck of her tunic before unfastening the belt about her waist, from which hung her scrip and water bottle. She pulled the tunic from her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor. Then she removed the plain linen shift. She looked down at herself, noticing several red marks where the fleas had bit into her flesh last night and her eyes darkened with distaste. Then she ran her hands over her naked body, frowning as she considered the weight she had lost. Her breasts were not as full as when she had left England and her hips and stomach showed no spare flesh. She wondered what he would think of her if he saw her so and grew hot at such an immodest and sinful thought.
Hastily she reached for the cream linen kirtle and dragged it over her head, concerned in case he re-entered the room before she was ready for him. Then her hand closed on the green gown. For a moment she pressed a fold of it against her cheek, savouring the fresh smell of the fabric and the faint fragrance of lavender that clung to it. She undid the fastenings of the long sleeves and finished dressing.
Unfortunately, there was no mirror in the bedchamber to inspect her appearance. She grimaced, but then told herself that was to the good because vanity was a sin. Even so she needed to do something with her hair, which was surely in even more of a mess than it had been earlier. From her scrip she took a bone comb that had been the Lady Catherine’s, but before she could set about tidying her hair there came the rap of knuckles on the outer door and it opened a fraction.
‘May I come in? It’s raining again,’ said her captor. She hesitated only a second before bidding him enter.
Owain stared at her, stunned by the difference the gown made to her appearance. It was true that the looseness of the skirts concealed the narrowness of her waist and curves of her hips, but the plunging V of the bodice revealed her cleavage and he could not take his eyes from the sweet shape of her breasts. Desire warmed his body and he was aware that she was staring at him with a flush on her cheeks and a question in her eyes.
‘It fits as if it had been made for you,’ he said slowly.
She would have had to be blind not to notice the admiration in his eyes and shyness caused her to turn from him with the comb in her hand. ‘I thank you, sir. It is a long time since I have worn such a gown.’ Kate smiled to herself at the thought that never had she worn such a gown.
‘It is my pleasure.’ He watched her struggle to tug the comb through her short, unruly curls; before she realised what he was about, he had taken it from her fingers. ‘Allow me!’ he said quietly.
‘Sir, I can manage.’ There was a tremor in her voice.
‘It’s no trouble.’ He brought her against him and, taking a handful of her hair, began to drag the comb through her curls.
He was much too close for Kate’s peace of mind and she shivered as his fingers brushed her neck, sending pleasing ripples through her. ‘Please, don’t do that!’ she blurted out.
‘Don’t do what, my lady? Some of your curls are in such a tangle they need teasing out.’
His fingers brushed her ear and the nape of her neck. She could bear it no longer and forced herself to step away from him. The skirts fluttered about her bare ankles in a manner that felt very sensuous. ‘Sir, this has gone far enough. I cannot permit such intimacies,’ she said, trying to sound firm. ‘You will desist. I much appreciate your—your kindness in providing me with a new gown and will recompense you as soon as I am able.’
He smiled. ‘You have money? I deemed that your scrip was empty.’
She tilted her dimpled chin. ‘I have lived the life of a pilgrim for what seems an age. Of course I have no money. But you know who I am…so you also know that I am a widow with a manor in Lancashire. I will see that you get your money when I return home. Now I wish to go back to the hostel.’
&nbs
p; He frowned. ‘Are you sure about that? The rain might have stopped, but the hostel is such a dismal place.’
She made no answer but lowered her eyes. ‘I have companions there.’
‘The Fletchers? Did they not have just cause for wishing Sir Roger dead?’
Kate paled and knew that she had to come up with an answer that would destroy any desire in him to seek them out. ‘They were killed when we passed over the mountains…that was when I hacked off my hair and prayed I would be mistaken for a lad. The companions I talk of are those of the Way. Other pilgrims like myself.’
He was taken aback, thinking that Sir Thomas would not be pleased with this news. Seeing his reaction, Kate decided she had made the right decision. ‘I must return to the hostel. I cannot stay here with you. It is not seemly.’
He did not deny it but said, ‘Neither is travelling without a chaperon in a group of strangers, but I will humour you and accompany you to the hostel. Although, whether they will accept you in such a gown…’ His words trailed off.
She was dismayed. Was he suggesting that she had to remove the new gown and undergarment and dress in the tunic again? She knew that most of those she had seen on the pilgrims’ way were simply clad. She sighed. ‘Then I will have to return the gown to you.’
His blue eyes were speculative. ‘It suits you well. Are you certain you want to do this?’
She tilted her chin. ‘If you would turn your back, sir?’ This time he did not try to persuade her, but did as she asked.
Kate could have wept as she removed the gown and donned the hated tunic again. ‘I am ready,’ she said.
He faced her with a frown. ‘This is a foolishness. There are still questions I have to ask you. I will see you on the morrow and escort you back to England.’
Here was the answer to her prayer, yet how could she trust him? They would be thrown into each other’s company far too much—and who was to say that she might not betray herself and her mother and brother by a slip of the tongue? ‘I have no more to say to you on the matter of Sir Roger’s death. I will return home the way I came,’ she assured him, her voice shaking slightly.