Drawing her head back, to stop his scent from be fuddling her, she continued with her study of Hugh in repose.
His beard, beginning to show, was a couple of shades darker than his hair. His eye lashes were dark, too; he had thick eye lashes with a definite curl to them. Her finger tips ran lightly over his cheek bones, noting how his skin had been bronzed by the sun. She felt his stubble. Smiled at the prickliness. Never had she seen Hugh Duclair looking half so unkempt. If she, lying with him in the forest like this, was a wild woman, he was a wild man.
Even in his dishevelment Hugh remained handsome. There was no disguising the strength of his jaw, it warned anyone with eyes to see that this man had a will of iron. A will that refused to accept the terms of his banishment, a will that was fully engaged on attaining his goal. Hugh would, Aude was certain, prove that the charges against him were false. He would once again be the Count de Freyncourt. That, or he would die trying.
Her guts twisted.
He would succeed, he must! At the thought of him failing, her whole body went cold. She would not think of it.
Unable to take her hand away, she smoothed his hair back from his brow. For this small space of time, he was hers.
Such immoderate, immodest feelings he evoked in her! So un lady like.
Her feelings for Martin had never been half as powerful. What she had felt for Martin had been sensible and considered.
Back in 1066 after her father’s death, Aude had accepted she needed some where to go while Edouard and Hugh went to England to fight at Duke William’s side. Count Martin, whom she had liked for giving her father a place among his knights, had seemed the obvious choice. And when Hugh had endorsed the suggestion, Aude’s thirteen-year-old self had agreed.
She had thought she loved Martin. But what she felt for Martin had been moderate. Sensible.
What she felt for Hugh on the other hand… Her heart lurched.
No! It was impossible, she would not even think of it! Any feelings for Hugh were impossible. They were ill considered.
Passionate?
No. No!
Withdrawing her hand from his hair, sternly re minding herself that unruly thoughts must be con trolled, Aude extricated herself from their bed and went outside in search of the brook that Hugh had mentioned the previous night.
Her morning ablutions complete, Aude picked her way back to the shelter.
She was careful to avoid the nettles and briars; the paths were choked with them. Even in daylight, the Roman villa was barely visible unless you stumbled over it. Most of the structure had collapsed centuries ago. Of the walls that remained, including those in the chamber with the mosaic floor, much had been eaten by plants. Tall brackens unfurled next to stone work that was screened by thick curtains of ivy; straggling brambles poked through windows and rooted in crevices; seedlings sprouted from cracks in the crumbling plaster.
It is a good hiding place, but given how close the hounds were yesterday, surely it is not entirely safe? Until yesterday, Aude had not known of the villa’s existence, but she was a stranger from Normandy. Those familiar with this corner of Wessex must know of it. Her stomach cramped. Hugh must leave this place, and quickly!
Beech branches stretched out towards her as she approached the hidden room. A black bird let out an alarm call, twigs snapped under foot.
‘It is me, Aude,’ she said, reaching the ivy-hung doorway.
Hugh was standing in front of Gil, his sword drawn, his mouth a thin line. ‘Merde, Aude, we took you for a garrison scout.’ His sword slammed back into its sheath.
‘I did not know how best to announce myself.’
Hugh grunted and rubbed his face; if anything, he looked more exhausted than he had the night before. Gil was struggling to rise, his face the colour of whey.
‘Lie back, Gil,’ she said. ‘I am sorry I startled you.’
‘Told him to lie back myself, but he insists on coming with me,’ Hugh said, lifting a brow as he looked at his squire. ‘However, since Lady Aude agrees with me, perhaps you will do as you are told for once.’
Aude caught the worn sleeve of Hugh’s tunic. ‘Might I ask where you are going? A manhunt tore across the boundaries of Crabbe Wood yesterday, I suppose this morning you are going to try and tell me it had nothing to do with you.’
Hugh grinned. ‘Actually, Aude, you took the very words out of my mouth.’
Aude put her hands on her hips. ‘You will have to do better than that. I remember what you said last night. You were both involved and that is how Gil was hurt.’ Going to Gil, she hunkered down and laid her the back of her fingers against his brow. ‘No fever, thank God.’
Gil’s eyes lit up. ‘Does that mean I may accompany Hugh?’
‘Not unless you want to undo those stitches and the benefit of last night’s sleep.’ She longed to tell Hugh to take care of himself, but the words remained unspoken. They seemed too revealing; in any case, Hugh would do what he must.
‘Gil, Aude is in the right, you must stay here.’ Hugh was at the doorway, cloak in hand. ‘I don’t intend to be long. Aude, a word, if I may, before I leave.’
Aude pushed through the ivy curtain and followed Hugh out.
‘I don’t need to ask you to look after him,’ Hugh murmured. A shaft of sunlight brightened his hair. His eyes stared steadily into hers; they were a stormy grey today, not blue as they had been that day in Crèvecoeur when he had ridden in as Count de Freyncourt. A lump rose in her throat.
‘I’ll take care of him.’ She touched his hand. ‘Won’t you tell me where you are going?’
‘St Peter’s Priory.’
Aude had heard of it. St Peter’s Priory was one of the more humble of the Wessex monasteries. It was sited not five miles from Alfold on the out skirts of Winchester. ‘Why? What do you hope to find there?’
‘A witness, I hope.’ He drew her behind an ivy-clad pillar, so they were out of sight from the track. He looked down at her, mouth turning up into a lop-sided smile, thumbs caressing her knuckles.
Aude’s pulse skittered. ‘Witness to what?’
‘It concerns my father. Shortly before he died he had business with the Bishop of St Aubin.’
‘Bishop Osmund? Wasn’t he the man who put it about that you had connections with Duke Will—’ remembering they were in England, Aude hurried to correct herself ‘—with King William’s enemies in Flanders?’
Hugh nodded. His thumb was making small circles on her wrist. Aude frowned; the starry little tingles had started and they were more than a little distracting. She curled her fingers round his.
‘Father put a large chest of family silver into the Bishop’s hands for safe-keeping,’ he said. ‘But after Father’s death, the bishop denied its existence.’
Aude stared up Hugh. His face was impassive, but she could read him—that impassivity was in truth a mask for anger that went bone-deep. To have one’s life snatched away for a chest of silver, and by a man of the church…
‘I am sorry, Hugh.’
A muscle clenched in his jaw. ‘There is hope. Apparently one of the monks from Jumièges stood as witness to the dealings between my father and Bishop Osmund.’
‘Documents were signed?’
‘Yes. I have discovered that there were two sets of documents and the monk—Brother Baldwin—witnessed them being signed. He is a hard man to find. One rumour I picked up yesterday has it that shortly after acting as witness he went to another house in England, to St Peter’s.’
‘A rumour? Then you don’t know for sure he is there?’
Hugh’s expression was rueful. ‘Sadly not. Brother Baldwin is the most elusive of men. But I intend to find him, his testimony could be my salvation.’ Lifting her hand, Hugh kissed her fingertips. ‘So, Brat, if you will excuse me. God willing, I shall be back before the shadows lengthen.’
Giving her a small tug, Hugh brought her to him, chest to breast, and pressed a swift kiss to the top of her head. Before Aude had time to blink, never mind wish hi
m well, he was forging his way through waist-high bracken towards the stable. His use of the hated pet name slid by un re marked.
Noon came and went and Hugh did not return.
Aude’s boots tapped across the tiled floor as she walked back and forth. Since Hugh had gone, she had made many crossings of the mosaic floor, each one made with her heart and mind praying for his safe return. It was barely four paces from one broken wall to the other.
Tap, tap, went her feet; it was a hollow sound. No Hugh.
Tap, tap. She was a bundle of nerves. In a moment, she would go and look outside. Again.
Gil was watching her. ‘He will return, my lady, he will overcome his difficulties.’
‘I wish I had your confidence.’ She went on walking, up and down, up and down. ‘What if he never finds this monk?’
Gil put his head on one side. ‘You doubt him?’
‘Not Hugh, of course not, but without proof how does one establish one’s innocence? He is contradicting the sworn oath of a bishop!’
‘He will regain his title because the accusations against him are unjust,’ Gil said. ‘He will return to Freyncourt in triumph.’
Aude came to a halt and stared. ‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘And so it is.’
Shaking her head, Aude resumed her pacing. She wished she had Gil’s faith, but she did not. Gil’s eyelids were drooping. Selfishly, Aude wanted him awake. She needed him awake so she could talk to him; it would help distract her.
‘The floor sounds hollow, Gil, have you noticed?’
Slowly Gil opened his eyes. ‘That’s because it is hollow, the hypocaust…’
‘Oh, I remember. It is how the Romans heated the floor.’
‘Yes.’
Talking to Gil was not helping; besides, Aude knew he wanted sleep. Where was Hugh? Was he safe? She pushed the curtain of ivy aside and peered out. Nothing. It was embarrassing that Gil should see her so edgy, but his eyes had closed, he was drifting off again.
Unable to help herself, in a fever of anxiety lest Hugh’s identity had been discovered, she ducked under the ivy.
Outside, columns of sunlight slanted down through the leaves, lighting up a tangle of moss-clad roots, an ancient creeper with a stem as thick as a man’s wrist, a clump of bracken. The wood pigeons were crooning to each other in the green canopy above, and some way to the west she heard the distant mew of a hawk. No hoof beats. There was little movement other than a flash of red as a pair of young squirrels played in the lower branches of a beech tree.
The moment she stepped back into the shelter, Gil’s eyes opened. ‘You are worried about him,’ he said. ‘And in truth so am I. It is not like him to be so late; I should have accompanied him.’
Aude shook her head. ‘No, Gil, you most certainly should not. But I confess it, I am very concerned. However, I cannot stay here the whole day, I have to put in an appearance at Alfold. There is nothing for it, I shall have to go back.’
‘What will you do?’
Thoughtfully, Aude scuffed at the dirt in a corner, revealing more of the interlocking mosaic pattern. ‘First I shall arrange for a litter to be brought to take you back to the hall, I won’t abandon you here. And then…’ Her voice faded. She forced a smile and continued with more confidence that she felt. ‘Don’t worry, Gil, I shall think of some thing, I always do.’
It proved easier than Aude had expected getting Gil to Alfold Hall. Once he was safely there, Edwige threw herself into caring for him, proving herself a staunch and discreet sup porter.
In a trice she and Louise had arranged screens around Gil’s pallet, declaring him too ill to be pestered with questions. Quickly and quietly, Aude told Louise as much as she could about what had happened and what her brother was doing.
After that, any questions they were asked—such as those coming from Sir Olivier and Sir Ralph—as to what had happened to Gil were warded off with vague mutterings of ‘an incident with a pack of wild dogs outside Winchester’. And when asked about the whereabouts of Gil’s com pan ion, Hugh of Jumièges, Louise would slide a sidelong glance at Aude, and say that he had most likely left the district. Time dragged.
Afternoon melted into dusk and the boards were arranged for the evening meal. The torches were lit, their glow was reflected in the bronze hanging bowls that swayed gently above their heads. Finally, the fire in the stone-ringed hearth was banked for the night, and Cedric took his place by the door.
And yet there was no Hugh.
Anxiety was a cold ball in the pit of Aude’s stomach when at last she took up her lantern and bade everyone good night. Sitting in the box-bed while she drew on her night shift, the ball grew ever colder.
Hugh! Had he returned to the villa and found them missing? Had he been recognised? Caught? Where was he?
She dragged a linen sheet and a thin blanket over herself—without him at her side the night would be cool and the hours until dawn would be an eternity…
Sweet Mother, what was the matter with her? She was worried about Hugh and…and…
She thumped the mattress and tried to will away her anxiety.
Hugh can look after himself. Hugh will be safe. Hugh…
A scuffling sound broke the chain of her thoughts. Mice in the thatch? Beetles? It really was past time the roof was renewed. Whatever had happened to Hugh—she must not think of him, she must not—tomorrow she would see to it that a start was made on the roof.
‘Aude?’
The harsh whisper had her shooting upright. More scuffling. Not mice or beetles, it was…
The horses on the tapestry wall-hanging shifted; she snatched them aside. The planked board groaned, plaster dust sifted down. And then the night air was playing across her cheeks and strong fingers had appeared round the edge of the plank.
Scrambling to her knees and retreating into a corner to give him space, Aude glanced furtively at the bed curtain. It was firmly closed, thank God. She made herself small. The lantern light trembled.
Hugh appeared in the opening. The mattress shifted under his weight, straw rustled.
Silently, she mouthed his name and reached for him. ‘Hugh!’ It was impossible not to give that sun-bleached hair a swift caress before she recollected herself. She had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life, but if Hugh were discovered here in dead of night with her in her bed clothes…
Holy Mother, how would she explain that away?
Her people might know him as Hugh of Jumièges, but she was the Lady of Alfold, and to be discovered with a man in her bed—Heavens! And should it ever be revealed that Hugh was in truth the banished Count de Freyncourt…
Lord. Thin ice indeed.
Hugh crawled on to her bed, yanked the board back and the tapestry fell into place, hiding the wound in the wall. Leaning back against the embroidered horses, he held out his hand. Aude found she had moved to his side like a dove to the roost.
He was happy to take comfort from her because at the moment there was little enough of it in his life. For her part, she was happy to give it, but she could never hope for more. Hugh Duclair might no longer be Count de Freyncourt, but he would always be as far above her as the stars above the earth.
His arms settled round her shoulders and a soft kiss was pressed to her cheek.
‘Any success?’ she whispered.
His eyes were grey in the fitful light, his face shadowed. His hair had been disordered by the wind on the ride back from St Peter’s and he still had not shaved. He grimaced. ‘A little, but not enough, I fear. I could do with finding Brother Baldwin.’
Impulsively, Aude hugged him to her. His head came to rest against hers and he heaved a sigh.
‘He had left the Priory?’ Aude asked. ‘I take it you spoke to the Prior? Surely he would know where Brother Baldwin has gone?’
His shoulders lifted. ‘You would have thought so, but I could get no joy of him. I would swear the Prior knows where he is, but he shut up tight as a clam whenever I mentioned Brother Ba
ldwin’s name. It was extremely frustrating.’
‘How odd.’
Hugh caught her hand and locked his fingers with hers. ‘Luck wasn’t entirely against me. The prior did tell me that Brother Baldwin had left a document in his keeping.’
‘One of the missing documents?’
‘The same.’
‘But that’s wonderful! Do you have it?’
‘It is safe.’ He gave her a weary smile. ‘It proves my father left much of the Freyncourt silver with Bishop Osmund. However, my testimony would be more convincing if I could produce the witness who attested to the signatures on it. Brother Baldwin is such a witness. If only I could persuade him to testify to the truth, Bishop Osmund’s honour will be revealed as worth less, he will never be trusted again.’
The light was playing tricks with Aude’s eyes; it was shifting over the various planes and angles of Hugh’s face in such a way that she felt she was looking at a stranger. At one moment his long eye lashes cast shadowy crescents on his cheek bones, the next his nose was shaped like the beak of a hawk.
‘What will you do?’
He ran a hand round the back of his neck and lifted his shoulders, and then he was Hugh again, the Hugh that she knew. ‘I shall go back to Winchester to make enquiries there.’
‘To the Abbey at New Minster? No! It’s too close to the garrison.’
Frowning grey eyes clashed with hers. ‘I should have gone there at the outset,’ he said, softly. ‘All roads seem to lead there.’ He gave her a twisted smile. ‘Aude, you know I have to do this.’
Her fingers clenched convulsively on his; she forced them to relax. She wouldn’t dream of trying to prevent Hugh from doing whatever he thought necessary to redeem himself, but equally, she did not want him riding back to Winchester. The snarls and yelps of hunting dogs echoed in her mind.
She was opening her mouth to whisper her objections when, on the other side of the bed-curtain, someone coughed. She clamped her mouth shut and sent Hugh a look, she doubted that he noticed. He was toying with her fingers, measuring her wrist by en cir cling it with his finger and thumb. Lifting it to his mouth, he kissed the back of her hand.
Wessex Weddings 05 - Her Banished Lord Page 14