by June Francis
‘Well met, coz.’ She held a limp hand out to John. ‘You have to be the more sensible twin,’ she said in a husky voice.
Louise did not catch what John said because Harry sidled up to her and drew her aside to mutter, ‘Sensible! I wonder what she would think if she knew about you. But then she always did have a fancy for my brother, primarily because he’s the elder and has more coming to him. Possessions matter to Blanche.’
‘You don’t like her?’ said Louise in a low voice, unable to resist learning something of this woman.
He shrugged and said softly, ‘She’s devious — and if you have an eye to my brother still setting you up in a house, then I would watch her.’
‘I have no intention,’ she retorted, her eyes sparkling.
‘Perhaps it’s marriage you have in mind.’ His tone was pensive. ‘I doubt if my brother will marry you. He generally behaves in a manner that is sensible.’
‘I’m not so foolish as to consider that he would marry me,’ she said with dignity. ‘I’m only here because I need to know the name of the man who took Marguerite.’
‘So you want something from me.’ He smiled. ‘There could be a price on such information, my dear. What have you to offer?’
Louise felt the heat run up under her skin, and was angry. ‘But you took her!’ Her voice rose slightly and there was a sudden hush in the conversation between the others, and Blanche’s pale eyes rested on Louise.
‘Who is this person?’ she asked, fluttering a glance at John.
‘This is M’sieur Saulnier,’ he said, and it was as if a shutter came down over his face as his gaze washed over Louise and Harry. ‘Louis, this is our kinswoman, Mistress Blanche Chutterbuck.’
Louise bowed stiffly, feeling frozen by John’s expression.
‘A monsieur!’ Blanche clutched at her crucifix and her mouth tightened. ‘But why is he here? Was it Harry’s idea? Likely he did not consider that the sight of a Frenchman would bring back my loss to me tenfold.’
‘The monsieur came with John,’ said Harry with obvious enjoyment. ‘He is aiding him in his search for his sister, whom the wicked English abducted and brought here to be a servant.’
For a moment anger flashed in Blanche’s eyes as she stared at Harry. Then she turned to John, placing a hand on his sleeve. ‘Your brother jests, of course,’ she said in a slightly amused tone.
‘No,’ said John shortly. ‘The monsieur helped me in my search for Harry. I considered that the least I could do was to return the favour. Now if I’m not mistaken supper is about to be served. Shall we sit down?’ He waved a hand in the direction of the high table, and, after a reproving stare at him, Blanche slid her hand into his arm.
‘I forgive you. Come, John. You can tell me about all your adventures.’
‘Neatly handled,’ murmured Harry, taking Louise’s elbow. ‘Her husband perished at the siege of Harfleur — that’s why she was rude to you. Although he wasn’t even killed by the French but died, like many an Englishman did, from a surfeit of tainted oysters.’
‘Then she should not behave the way she does,’ said Louise tersely, determinedly keeping her eyes from wandering to John and Blanche. ‘I’m not overfond of the English but I wouldn’t be so rude to a guest.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ murmured Harry, his face expressionless. ‘Now what did you call my brother when you met him? And didn’t you try to kill him?’
Her eyes glinted. ‘I had just cause when I thought him you.’
‘Do you still want to kill me?’ He swung a leg over the bench and eased himself over before sitting down. ‘I swear my brother does if the look on his face is anything to go by.’
Louise glanced in John’s direction and for a moment their gazes held before his attention was demanded by Blanche on his left. ‘He’s probably relieved that you have taken me off his hands,’ she muttered.
‘Probably,’ agreed Harry with a grin, holding out his hands to the boy who was passing along the bench with a bowl and pitcher of water.
‘You’re enjoying this,’ muttered Louise, hunching her shoulder at him.
‘Relax, my dear,’ he said in French as he dried his hands. ‘If you can’t have my brother in your bed, why not try me?’ His eyes danced in a way that reminded her terribly of John and there was an ache in the region of her heart.
She said quietly, ‘No, thank you.’ And turned to the boy who was holding out the bowl to her. Harry shrugged and turned to the woman on his right hand.
Throughout the meal she avoided looking at John and Blanche, and she and Harry exchanged little conversation. As for the man on her left, he was taken up talking to the woman the other side of him. If she had not begun to feel sleepy then the evening would have proved more of an ordeal. As it was she felt as if she were existing in a dream, and her head nodded.
A tap on the shoulder caused her to look up. ‘I think it’s time you were in bed.’
‘Do you?’ Louise tried to focus on the weather-beaten face. The blue eyes seemed to bore into hers and demanded — what of her? ‘Perhaps someone can show me my room?’ She spoke in French and the words were slurred with weariness.
‘I will.’ He took hold of her with one hand, the other held her baggage, and she was hoisted into an almost upright position.
She groaned. ‘I don’t think I want to see another horse for a long time,’ she muttered.
‘No?’ A slight smile eased the grimness about his mouth as he slipped his arm about her waist. She heard him say, ‘I’ll see Louis to his room, Mother. He’s tired out with travelling.’ Was he really talking about her? She wasn’t sure that it was right that Harry should go with her into her bedchamber, and said so in a sibilant whisper.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ he muttered, frowning down at her as they walked down the hall. ‘You’re almost asleep on your feet. Someone has to take you up and it’s better I do it than anyone else. I know you’d probably prefer my brother but you’ll just have to put up with me.’
‘Where’s your brother?’ She blinked up at him.
‘Somewhere with Blanche. They probably have more in common than everybody thinks.’
‘Ay.’ A deep sigh escaped her. ‘I know he won’t want to marry me. I’m not good enough. It’s all right suggesting setting me up as his mistress — but marriage, that’s something different.’
He stilled. ‘He’s really asked you?’
‘You know he has.’ They had come to a door.
‘And what did you answer?’ he demanded.
She scowled. ‘That would be telling. You ask too many questions, Master Milburn.’
His mouth tightened as he released her and opened the door. ‘I won’t ask any more.’ They came out into a stone passageway lit by torches set in sconces on the wall. She could see the bottom of a curving flight of stone steps at its far end.
Louise had only ascended four steps when she stumbled. Immediately his hand was there lifting her up and helping her up the rest of the twisting steps.
At last they came to her bedchamber. It was partly circular and had only a narrow slit opening for a window, which had fortunately been glazed, shutting out the winds that had once made the room chillier than it was now. True, a brazier was glowing not far from the low truckle-bed, but it threw out little heat.
He placed the baggage on the truckle-bed and leaned against the stone wall, his arms folded across his chest, watching Louise warming her hands by the brazier. ‘You can go now,’ she said, barely glancing at him.
‘It’s come to this, has it?’ he said angrily, dropping his arms. ‘The first time we’re really alone for days and you tell me to go. You’re going to be cold in here, sleeping on your own.’
‘I’ll survive,’ she said stiffly. ‘You forget that I spent two years in the wild in worse conditions than this due to your king and countrymen.’
‘Sweet Jesu! Are we back to that subject? It’s because of Blanche, I suppose, and my brother.’
‘If you know so m
uch about my feelings, Master Milburn,’ she muttered crossly, ‘then you’ll know I don’t want you here.’
‘Don’t you?’ he demanded, pushing himself away from the wall and coming to stand behind her. Immediately she made to move away but he seized her shoulder. She gasped. ‘What is wrong?’ The tone of his voice changed.
‘My shoulders are stiff with riding,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘In truth the whole of me is weary. Now if you don’t mind leaving?’
There was a short silence before he murmured, ‘Let me ease you.’
‘No!’ she cried, and would have moved away but his hands gripped her shoulders.
‘Be still, woman! I’m not going to rape you.’ His fingers began to gently massage the muscles at the back of her neck. ‘Be at ease, Louise.’ The words were but a thread of sound and presented no threat. A sigh passed through her and after a few minutes she managed to roll her head round.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Lethargy caused her to droop against him.
His arms went round her and his mouth pressed a kiss on the nape of her neck. She jerked herself awake and began to struggle, but his muscles seemed to be made of steel. ‘Let me go,’ she demanded through gritted teeth.
‘No,’ he said calmly, turning her round. His lips found hers, forcing them apart with a passion that flamed such a response within her that she was shocked because it could have been John kissing her. But that wasn’t possible because he was with Blanche and that thought hurt even as it angered. Perhaps even now he was kissing Blanche just as Harry was kissing her. Maybe Harry could rouse the same feelings within her as John! For several minutes she allowed herself to be swept along by physical desire and only came to an awareness of what they were doing when he tore free her shirt from her hose.
She was so dumbfounded that for a moment she was lost for something to do and say as his hands cupped her breasts, before rubbing his palm back and forth across her nipples, sending sensations darting along her nerves. Her pulses raced crazily. Sweet Jesu! What was she thinking of behaving in such a way? Harry would believe that he could treat her just as he had Clotilde. She tore her mouth from his and struggled, taking him by surprise so that she managed to free an arm to bring it up and slap his face. ‘Don’t ever kiss me like that again!’ she panted. ‘Or touch me!’
‘What?’ he demanded, his chest heaving and his eyes dark with emotion. ‘Is this some kind of game you’re playing, Louise?’
‘I’m not very good at your kind of games,’ she cried, pulling her shirt tightly about her. ‘Now get out of here. I’m not prepared to pay the price for your help to find Marguerite.’
‘What are you talking about?’ His amazement was turning to anger. ‘Are we really back to you believing that’s what my wanting you is all about? A quick romp in payment?’
‘Isn’t it?’ she said, forcing ice into her voice. ‘I’ll not be your mistress. I’ve told you before.’
A painful laugh escaped him and he moved over to the door. ‘What a fool I am. I’d begun to trust you, to believe that life with a woman like you could be worth trying. Even just now I tricked myself into believing that you really cared and wanted me too.’ He paused, riffling a hand through his hair and raising it into a curling crest. ‘I don’t understand. I could have sworn that you … ’ He shrugged and his expression hardened. ‘You don’t have to worry, Louise. I won’t bother you again in such fashion. But I’ll still keep my promise and help you to find Marguerite.’ He closed the door behind him.
His words took moments to sink in. Had she misheard him? Or had he really said that he would keep his promise to find Marguerite? Her heart beat jerkily as she listened to his footsteps ringing on the stone floor and then heard them clatter down the steps. If he had then that meant that he was not Harry but John. Hadn’t she thought it was John when he kissed her? She should have trusted her senses.
Her blood felt as if turned to ice and she sank on to the truckle-bed and put her head on her hand. Dear God, she loved him and she had sent him away!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOUISE’S instincts were to go after John and explain that she had believed him to be Harry, then she remembered her response to his kisses. She sank on to the truckle-bed and gazed unseeingly at the glowing brazier. How had she come to love him? This Englishman! She had been a fool not keeping her distance, knowing that what he could offer her was not acceptable. Three years ago it would have been her right to marry a man in John’s position now that his wife had died — but not now! Tears sparkled on her thick lashes and she brushed them away fiercely. Damn kings and knights who made wan!
Kicking off her boots, Louise pulled back the rough blankets and, fully-clothed, got beneath them. This night and all the nights to follow she was going to miss John’s warmth, the male smell of him, his shoulder to pillow her head on. The tears started again and this time she let them fall, and cried into her pillow, until exhausted she slept.
The sound of a door closing woke Louise the next morning. She sat up slowly and gazed bleary-eyed about the room, immediately the memory of what had happened last night was with her and it did not seem to matter that the brazier had gone out and the bedchamber was cold and dimly lit. Someone had placed a bowl of water and soap on the floor. At the foot of the bed was a towel and some clothing. She leaned forward and saw that they were boy’s clothing, sensible and hard wearing. Perhaps it was just as well that they were so plain and would do little to attract a man. But why was she thinking in such a way? John no longer wanted anything to do with her. He had made that clear.
Although she felt no enthusiasm for the coming day, she clambered out of bed and stripped. She washed thoroughly in the cooling water, before, with a frowning countenance, she donned the clean boy’s clothes.
In no mood to go down to the hall yet and face John and a group of strangers, who, on the whole, seemed to possess no warmth of feeling towards her, she went over to the window and gazed out at overcast skies. It would have been better if she had never left the forest in Normandy! At least there her expectations of finding love and comfort had been low. Yet if she had stayed it would have meant giving up all hope of ever seeing her sister again, and she could not, would not, do that. Had John really meant what he had said about still helping her to find Marguerite? She thought of Harry and slammed a fist against the wall in angry frustration. Did he tease her when he talked of her paying for the information about Marguerite’s captor? She did not think so.
Several minutes longer she stayed by the window, looking out on the unfamiliar landscape, wondering what she was to do, and whether John could make his brother tell him where Marguerite was, then she straightened her shoulders, picked up her cloak, and left the room.
Louise hesitated in the doorway of the hall. It was occupied by scurrying servants, going about their tasks, and there was much calling one to the other. She felt the excitement in the air and suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Eve. Over by the outside door a group of people had gathered, muffled up in fur-trimmed cloaks, ready to brave the cold weather outside. John and Harry were among them, as was Blanche.
Uncertain about what she was expected to be doing that day, Louise did not go over to them, but instead made her way across the rush-strewn floor to a trestle and sat on a bench. There was a loaf in front of her and she picked up a knife and cut a slice of bread, and spread it with honey. Her teeth bit into it, and her hand had just reached out to pour some ale when footsteps stopped the other side of the table.
‘We’re all waiting for you,’ said a male voice that sounded far from patient.
Louise looked up and met the glinting blue eyes. He looked so annoyed that this twin had to be John. Her heart sank but she said politely, ‘Pardon?’
‘You understood me.’ A muscle tightened in his lean cheek, which in daylight she could see still bore evidence of his beating-up in the forest.
‘Oui!’ She gesticulated. ‘But how was I to know that you were waiting? No one told me! Am I suppos
ed to read minds?’
‘I’ve told you now,’ he said emphatically, both his hands coming down hard on the table. ‘So get moving. Bring your breakfast with you or you’ll have it dark before we’re done.’ He turned and walked away from her.
‘But where are we going?’ she called, managing to swallow a mouthful of ale before scrambling over the bench and following him, bread in hand.
‘Foraying for greenery to decorate the hall,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
As soon as John reached the group, people began to move through the doorway, and were down the steps before Louise caught up with them. She found herself in company with Peter and his cousin Nat, who both smiled at her before continuing their conversation. She matched her pace to theirs. John certainly mustn’t want her company if he hadn’t waited for her. Probably he was with that Blanche woman who didn’t like her!
Moodily she kicked a pebble and gazed about her as they came out of the courtyard. A hamlet of grey stone houses and a tiny church huddled in the shelter of a group of trees. From somewhere near came the sound of water rushing over rocks and a few moments later they crossed a bridge and headed towards the dark shape of a forest on a knoll to their right. There were sheep in the fields.
Once beneath the trees most of the group split up and from all directions came the sound of voices.
‘I know where there’s mistletoe growing,’ said the gap-toothed Nat, who had a crop of tawny hair like his father, but possessed a wide, friendly smile. He led the way through a tumble of undergrowth, and they had to stoop to avoid sprays of thorny brambles, narrowly missing getting their clothes torn, and sending a boar crashing away from them. ‘That was a near escape,’ he said absently, getting back to the subject in hand. ‘It’s got miraculous powers, has mistletoe, so Mam told me. It can heal almost anything and if you hang it over your doorway then it wards off witchcraft and brings good luck.’ He flashed Louise one of his grins. ‘As well as that everybody kisses everybody as they come in the house, so that it’s getting so that wherever you hang mistletoe people kiss under it.’