Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances

by Lindsay Townsend

  Was he hairy all over?

  Sunniva felt herself growing pink as she contemplated that question and swung round swiftly to face forward again, leaning over her horse's neck and making great play of checking her shoe fastenings. Marc — what was his full name? Where was he from? Why was he on this pilgrimage, and with such young children? — did not look any different from their encounter of last night. Did she really think he would? She wanted to stare at him again, make him look at her, but was nervous of what she might read in his face.

  It was safer to lavish attention on his girls. Today, his three little ones were riding on the wagon, their sturdy ponies tied on leading reins to his glossy chestnut horse. He was passing something — a toy, a scrap of food — to the youngest child. The elder girl saw her watching and waved and Sunniva smiled and waved in return.

  "Do not waste your time on such brats!" Edgar drew rein beside her, rubbing his jaw. His horse, a grey gelding, already looked lathered, and was limping again although it was still early, the sunlight a glowing red mantle over the hills.

  Sunniva thought of her brother's miserable toothache and answered amiably, "They are as merry as starlings. I like to see them on our journey; their play makes the miles melt away."

  "The man was a fool to bring them — or is it him you want to impress? Another oaf to moon over your footprints! Do not imagine father will want such a luckless fellow kept dangling on a string: he is but a bow and scrape from a serf; I have known peasants with less hair and more wit."

  "Hush, Edgar!" Sunniva replied, indignant on Marc's behalf and keen that her twin brothers did not hear. They would torment her if they suspected she was paying any man any attention, however small. "There is a priest ahead," she added, glad of the distraction. "I think he is waiting for us. His cloak is very rich and his horse very fine." Nearly as fine as Marc's, she almost said, but stopped herself in time.

  At the word "rich", Edgar lashed his horse forward, leaving Sunniva in a cloud of dust. Behind her, she heard the twins chortling at her discomfort and sensed Marc glowering at her eldest brother's stiff, straight back. Tempted to turn to meet his strange, compelling eyes, she too spurred on her restive bay palfrey. Where there was a priest, there might also be a church and she was keen to pray.

  As the priest welcomed the pilgrims and his servants wound among them, offering cups of ale, Sunniva left them. While the rest of the party remained on horseback or stayed on the main baggage wagon, drinking and discussing the wonders to come at St Cuthbert's shrine, she slipped off her bay horse and made for the simple barn of the church set back from the road.

  She sped quickly through the mass of horses and riders, hearing snatches of conversation.

  "St Cuthbert blessed a loaf of bread and cured a man with it…"

  "The Northerners are a lewd and wicked race…"

  "Everyone north of the great river is uncouth. Even the Normans are not as devious."

  "Have you not heard? The Normans are gathering in force across the narrow sea; a great company of men. William the Bastard wants the English crown."

  "They will never set foot on our soil."

  "Truly, I think it is the end of the world. Do you remember the great trailing star, a few months back? It is a sign…"

  Her father and brothers were in the thick of such talk. Her maid, Bertana, who was often a bearer of tales to her father, shamelessly spying on her, one woman against another, had drained two cups of ale already and was holding up her wooden vessel for a third. Revelling in her moment of freedom, Sunniva picked up her long loose skirts and ran, her feet pounding along the daisy-strewn green track to the church. There was a small wood beside the church and she slowed a little, glancing between the holly and oak trees to make certain no thief lurked. All was peaceful, though, and the blackbird's alarm call was against only her.

  She reached the sanctuary of the church and grinned, swinging on the door a little in play as she went inside.

  She touched the holy water in its simple wall nook and signed the cross, kneeling on the beaten earth floor beside a rough painting of Saint Cuthbert with a bible, being guided into heaven by an angel with vast golden wings. Briefly, lowering her head, her thoughts flashed to the embroidered kneelers and wall hangings she longed to make for convents and churches and then she focused on Cena and Edgar, begging the saint to pity them, to heal their hurts and injuries.

  Was that whistling she could hear?

  She tensed, thinking of the shepherd, the fingers of her left hand closing tight around her dagger, but the pilgrims outside were laughing, their amusement muffled by the thick stone walls of the church. Shamed by her own fear, Sunniva prostrated herself as a penance. The dry packed earth scratched her face as she swore to abjure dancing, music and star-gazing for a month, to cook and clean and toil for her men folk as cheerfully as she knew how, to live on bread and water, if the holy saint would but graciously grant her wish.

  What was her wish?

  Warmth flooded up her feet and calves. For an instant, Sunniva wondered if she was blushing, or more shamefully, bleeding, but then she understood what the warmth signified — the church door was open — and she writhed about, lashing with her feet, scrabbling for her knife.

  Her scream was stopped by a heavy elbow brutally jammed into her throat as her back and breasts were bruised by the massive weight of a hooded man. Another man, also dressed in black and green and hooded, leaned against the open door, seemingly enjoying both the sunshine and her soundless struggles.

  "Wi' ye take a gander at the teats on that!" he growled, in thickly-accented English, laughing as Sunniva tried to roll sideways. "Fetch us a guid price, she will!"

  Sunniva struggled and tried to cry out.

  "Quiet, bitch!" The man pinning her down dragged at her mouth with his thumbs, shoving a hot, greasy hank of wool between her lips. She spat it out and bit him and he cursed and struck her, ramming his fist into her stomach. As she retched, he grabbed her hair through her head square and smashed her head on the floor.

  A wave of sick darkness overtook her and she blacked out. Her last conscious feeling was of thick, club-like fingers gouging at her breasts and other sweaty, rough hands ripping and parting her skirts.

  Frowning, Marc dismounted, instructing Alde and her sisters to stay on the wagon. If Sunniva wished to pray, God-speed to her, but she should not be left so long unattended. Her slatternly maid was still drinking and as for her brothers and father — had they even noticed she was gone?

  He had spied her stealing away, divined her wish for peace and let her go but now too much time was passing. The pilgrims were becoming restive and ready to move on: Sunniva needed to be warned.

  "My Lord Cena!" he called out, "Your daughter —”

  Cena waved aside his complaint, saying something Marc did not catch. Neither he nor his sons stirred from their places beside the priest and escorts.

  "You should look to your daughter!" Marc tried again, only to be met by a bellow of laughter from the older man.

  "Or you shall, eh?" Cena roared back, at which Marc pushed his way through the pilgrim crowd and stalked off toward the church, moving faster with each long stride. If he was being foolish, over-protective, so be it.

  It will give me a chance to speak to her again, he thought, and quickened his steps even more.

  The church door was closed, the building silent. A long, trailing streamer of raw wool hung from the door handle.

  The shepherd, Marc thought, recalling the man's piercing, repeating whistle. A signal to others? Muscles tightening with anger and anxiety, he leaned against the shadowed stone, closing his eyes, listening, as he drew his sword and flung the door back to its hinges, charging inside.

  With his vision already adjusted to the gloom of the church, he spotted Sunniva at once, lying just within the threshold, pale, still, and prone upon her back, two men groping her, tearing at her gown.

  "Non!" Marc roared, his sword ripping through the leather of the smaller man
's hood as he drove for the felon's skull. Yelling, the man scrambled behind a stone pillar, but Marc was already after the second, rangier figure who was lunging at the deathly silent Sunniva, trying to drag her away. Marc kicked him in the groin and stabbed with his sword, hacking a great gobbet of sheepskin from the man's long cloak. Behind his loose woollen hood, the coward's eyes flared with terror.

  "Rot in hell and back!" Marc bawled, bringing his sword round in a close, lethal arc that raised sparks on the bastard's belt buckle and rent a bloody welt across his chest. "No sanctuary here — you are dead!"

  He stamped on the jerking creature and raised his sword, aiming for the heart, when a low moan beside him had him tumbling to his knees to guard her. At the same instant, her two attackers crawled away, stumbling through the door and out.

  Marc let them go. Dropping his sword, he gathered Sunniva into his arms, whispering over and over in Breton, "You are alive. Safe. Safe, my angel. Safe."

  He had been so afraid she was harmed that having her trembling but whole beneath his hands was overwhelming. Tears stormed into his eyes, swiftly followed by rage.

  Where was her father? Her brothers? Where were the useless escorts, meant to protect?

  "Hush, hush," he crooned, rocking her back and forth as he struggled to keep his own grief and anger in check.

  He dared not look at her too closely while he had tears in his eyes and looked so unmanly, but the warrior's sense in him told him she was not fatally hurt in the flesh. He could smell no blood or sickness on her and though she shook, she did not grimace or writhe in pain.

  The injury to herself, however: her integrity, trust, humour, spirit — Marc furiously blinked away the moisture in his eyes as he prayed that Sunniva would soon recover and forget.

  "King Christ, ruler of heaven, let her not be afflicted by night terrors, as my poor Isabella is. Let her know peace."

  He should be raising the alarm, since none of the other fools of the pilgrim party seemed to have realized yet that anything was amiss. He should be returning to his own three. In a breath, his memory went back to the fire that had carried off his elder brother Roland and his wife: on that dreadful night he had cradled his niece Alde in his arms, even as he was now clutching Sunniva; he remembered how his and Alde's tears had mingled as they clung to each other.

  Sunniva did not cling. She was still too stunned to do anything save take great gasping breaths and shiver. There was a dark, welling bruise on the left side of her cheek and her eye was puckering, threatening to close altogether. Tears had streamed down her face; he saw them glistening near her nose and quivering lips. Such a red, soft mouth —

  "Do you hurt anywhere else?" he asked softly, relieved when she shook her head. Longing to wipe away her tears he held her close.

  Outside, he heard no hue and cry, no galloping horses, only birdsong and laughter. Incredibly, appallingly, had he not come in time, she could have been raped and carried off and neither Cena nor her brothers would have known anything.

  "Idiots!" he growled, his body burning with barely suppressed fury. "Stupid! Are they blind? What kind of men are they? Where are they?"

  A small, narrow hand touched his arm, returning him to himself. Slowly, Marc realized that only a few moments had passed and he also began to understand that Sunniva was trying to speak.

  "What is it?" He unclipped the water flask off his belt and offered it to her. She drank deeply and he was glad to see her swallow without pain.

  "Rescue," she croaked. "You rescued me." She flopped her hand against her breast, flinching a little. She closed her eyes. "They were trying to... you came...."

  "You did well," he said. "Two against one." Now was not the time to speak of the need for a chaperone: that should have been her father's concern.

  She swallowed again. "Day-time. Never expected it… in church. Foolish."

  "No." Marc chafed her cold fingers in his, unbuckling his cloak and netting it about her, sinking her battered body into its fleecy warmth. "They had planned something. Those bast — those things were doubtless slavers. Such creatures haunt the roads, waiting their chance." They were cowards, too, who might not have stalked the pilgrims had Cena not angered the shepherd.

  But who was he trying to convince? One glance at Sunniva would have been enough of a draw, especially as she was now, soft, vulnerable, with her face uncovered and her head-rail torn from her hair.

  Her hair. How had he not seen it at once? Even as Marc was ashamed of his raw, brutish feelings — not so far from the slavers' — he was lost in the glory of Sunniva's hair.

  A bright red-gold, a mass of waves and curls, it swept over her wiry little form in a brilliant froth. She had tried to bind it into a plait, but there was so much, such abundance, that tendrils exploded from the simple coil of cloth to sheath her slender arms and surprisingly opulent breasts.

  Mermaid's hair, Marc thought, quickly averting his eyes from her body. He wanted to smother his eyes and ears with her hair, to kiss and stroke and wind great handfuls round his wrists.

  With her still snug in the crook of his shoulder he drew his head away, as far as he could, until his back cracked. He had already failed one woman, failed her fatally: he would be finished forever if he did the same with Sunniva.

  "Can you stand?" he said, ears pricked for the sound of approaching footsteps. Surely they would not have much longer together.

  She tried to smile. Her valiant struggle wrenched at him, an actual physical pain in his chest. He was so astonished by it, he almost missed her answer.

  "In another moment, my lord."

  "I am no lord." Yours least of all. "Are you betrothed?"

  Fool! Marc berated himself. He had meant to say Are you dizzy. What in God's name was wrong with him?

  She stared at him, and no wonder. "Yes," she said flatly, all attempts at humour gone. "He is a good man. Truthful. Brave. Very strong. Very kind."

  "Ah." Instantly Marc hated him. He drew her so that she was sitting up, braced against his knee. "We should move. Those bas — the slavers might be returning with friends."

  She closed her eyes, briefly. Still very pale, she grew paler but then she looked at him directly.

  "Thank you for saving me," she said, and, leaning sideways, she kissed him on the cheek before he realized what she was about. "May I ask you something?"

  The sheer unexpectedness of her action — and the courage it must have taken her to do it — stopped his breath. His face felt to be burning yet cool where her lips had brushed, every bristle standing erect. His hand patted where her mouth had been.

  "What?" he demanded, feeling as dazed as he had been after the first time he had lain with a woman, with saucy Caterina the fisher-girl. Sixteen years old, he had been, and utterly besotted. He had asked her to marry him, knelt on the Breton beach and begged her to be his. She had been very kind in saying no, and let him take a lock of her billowing brown hair, as a keep-sake.

  If only his dealings with women had always been as sweetly harmless.

  "What?" he asked again, staring at Sunniva's exuberant golden tresses.

  "Why are you on this pilgrimage?" she asked. "For your nieces?"

  "Yes, yes," he said distractedly, before his mind caught up with her question. He did not want her probing too far with this. "What is his name?"

  "My betrothed?" Sunniva said in a low voice. "Caedmon of Whitby. What is your name, sir?"

  Since she was still in his arms, he was amused by her formality. "Marc de Sens," he replied, interested to see how she reacted.

  "A Norman? From across the sea?" She seemed intrigued.

  "A Breton, but close enough." Pleased she was not shocked, Marc grinned.

  Her answering smile was fleeting but real, revealing a tiny, charming gap between her front teeth, and suddenly he could no longer help himself. Breathing her in, inhaling her clean linen scent and warm, glorious hair, he lowered his head and kissed her.

  Her lips were chapped, he noted with pity, but as sof
t as Byzantine silk. She tasted of salt and sunlight, her mouth innocent of experience, tensing under his, wary but not afraid. For a moment he yearned to go further, tease his tongue against her teeth, yield in return and have her tongue flicker delightfully against his mouth. The very thought stirred him and he forced himself to stop, lifting her so that she would not realize his arousal.

  "You are a brave lady." With her still in his arms he rose to his feet. She was as light and fine-boned as Alde, but far more disturbing. The feel of her made his blood sing. "You can stand now?"

  "I can." She smiled, her smile faltering as she glanced at his mouth, then, gratifyingly, blazing out again. "Yes, I can stand, Marc de Sens."

  "Good for you." He swung her down, sad to let her go.

  "Good-day, my lady sun-light." He released her, took a step back and bowed, just as finally — finally! — Cena and an escort blundered into the church.

  Chapter 3

  "Sunniva, get on, will you? Idle girl!" hollered her father, standing with his round-shouldered back to the main altar, legs astride and hands on hips. "Everyone is waiting! What have you been doing? Why are you wearing that fellow's cloak?"

  She could not tell him. It was years since her father had sensibly talked with her; now he barked orders and complaints. Shrivelling inside at the notion of trying to explain, Sunniva gave Marc back his green cloak. She missed its weight and warmth at once and, worse, the sense of protection it had bestowed.

  "Thank you," Marc said softly. His thumb brushed hers, a gesture of comfort, and he smiled at her as she had seen him smile at his nieces.

  "Your youngsters," she began, but Marc shook his head.

  "The carter is looking after them," he said, motioning with his hand where she had missed tucking away a lock of hair; a small, ordinary thing that again put distance between her and the horror she had so recently endured. Silently, Sunniva finished retying her head-square.

  Feeling less vulnerable once her hair was covered, she turned to her father. "I am ready."