Мериел Фуллер – Commanded By The French Duke (страница 12)

He threw himself back on to the bed, bouncing against the sweet-smelling sheets, still warm from the press of his body. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked and strained with the movement. It seemed that the nuns spared no expense when it came to treating their guests. Although the room was small and sparsely furnished, the mattress was stuffed with horsehair, covered with sheets of woven flax and topped with feather pillows and furs. He stretched his long legs to the end of the bed, relishing the silken touch of the linen against his muscled limbs. After all those months of relentless fighting alongside Edward in Gascony at the behest of the King of France, desperate to reclaim his lands from the English, and after those awful months in captivity, this was sheer luxury. It reminded him of his home: his mother, the lady of the manor, bustling about, firing off orders to the servants, making sure that everyone had everything they needed: food, warmth, a bed for the night. It reminded him of the happy, vibrant presence of his sister.

He closed his eyes, disquiet spiralling through him. After his release he had been reluctant to return home, the prospect of normal life jarring strongly with the ugly emotions coursing through him. He had wanted to fight, and fight hard, hoping to scour away the debilitating guilt that dragged him down like a lead-weighted cloak. He had known nothing of his mother’s plans for Bianca, although she claimed to have sent a message to him, which he had never received. By the time Guilhem had finally returned home to inform his mother he was travelling to England with Prince Edward, Bianca had already made the treacherous journey to England herself. He had been so taken aback, annoyed even, by the way his mother had so easily acquiesced to the Queen’s request. She had seen it as a wonderful match for her daughter. All he could do now was visit his sister and make sure that she was happy. He could do that at least.

* * *

‘Fetch the rest of the bowls, please,’ Alinor asked one of the novices, as she placed one dish after another along the vast length of the refectory table, the stack of earthenware teetering precariously against her chest. Her left arm ached incessantly today; she was having trouble carrying the crockery. Sunshine streamed down from the high windows, gleaming against the pewter mugs and spoons, brightening the glossy wood of the table. Ornate candlesticks studded its length, bundles of wax set in cold, hard dribbles spilling out from around the unlit wicks.

‘How many?’ asked the young nun.

‘As many as you can find,’ Alinor said, reaching the end of the table. ‘We have to feed a lot of soldiers.’

‘Thank you, Alinor, for staying to help.’ Maeve emerged through a curtained opening in the corner of the refectory. ‘I’m not sure how we would have coped without your capable hands. It isn’t every day we receive such an influx of people.’

‘You would have managed without me, Maeve,’ Alinor assured her.

‘Well, I am grateful.’ Maeve narrowed her keen eyes, studying Alinor’s face. ‘But you look tired, my dear. Did you manage to sleep last night?’

‘Not much,’ Alinor replied truthfully. She had spent the night in the nuns’ dormitory, tossing and turning in a pallet bed, worrying about Bianca, chased by a pair of sparkling blue eyes through her fitful night. What if Guilhem should find out that Bianca was hiding right beneath them?

‘Ah, here they come now.’ The Prioress glanced up at the main door. Soldiers began to file in, slotting themselves along the rickety wooden benches. The sisters moved amongst them in pairs, one holding a vast tureen of honeyed porridge, whilst the other ladled out the cooked oats. Steam rose, mingling with the shafts of sunlight. The men talked in low voices, murmuring their thanks, keeping their eyes lowered respectfully. ‘At least it looks like they know how to behave themselves, thank the Lord,’ Maeve added.

Alinor’s heart sank as she spotted Guilhem, his tall, muscular frame covered by a close-fitting blue surcoat falling to mid-thigh, calf-length leather boots on his legs secured with criss-crossed laces. Beneath his surcoat, he wore a fine wool under-tunic, of which only the sleeves were visible. The material hugged his thick arms, emphasising the brawny curve of his biceps, the muscled sinew of his forearm. His hair shone like a bronze coin. Alinor swallowed hastily, turned away. ‘At least some of them do,’ she responded, waspishly.

Maeve noted the burn of colour sweep Alinor’s cheeks. ‘Has something happened?’ Her voice sharpened.

‘No, no,’ Alinor replied vehemently. She grimaced at the floor, blood racing through her veins. How to explain the relentless beat of her heart that skipped and lurched at the smallest glimpse of Guilhem?

‘I shouldn’t worry, my dear.’ Maeve placed one hand on Alinor’s shoulder, placating her. ‘They’re leaving this morning. The Prince spoke to me last night. He’s planning to stay at the Queen’s palace at Knighton for a couple of days’ rest and recuperation. It’s only a few miles north from here. Some of the men are in no condition to fight.’

‘Thank God.’ Alinor smoothed her hands down the front of her apron; her palms were sweating.

‘Alinor?’ Sister Beatrice scurried up to her, lugging an empty cauldron of porridge between her two plump hands. ‘You live at Claverstock, don’t you?’

‘Yes, you know I do.’ Alinor smiled at her. ‘Here, let me take that, it’s too heavy for you.’ She reached out for the cauldron, but Sister Beatrice shook her head, hanging on to the iron handles.

‘No, I’ll take it to the kitchens. You need to go and talk to him.’ She nodded significantly over to the refectory table, her veil gathering lumpily behind her neck.

‘Talk to whom?’ A cold wash of panic shot through Alinor’s veins. ‘Who is asking you about Claverstock?’ Her voice heightened, a shrill note.

‘Him, that one over there, the handsome one with the blue tunic. Sitting next to the Prince.’

‘What did you say to him?’ Alinor blurted out, words juddering.

Beatrice laughed. ‘Nothing really. He was asking if I knew the way to Claverstock, and I said I would ask you.’

‘You didn’t say that I lived there?’

‘No, no, of course not!’ Beatrice rounded her eyes at Alinor’s reaction. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked in a small voice, then clamped her lips together, a dull flush washing over her dumpy cheeks. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘No. Don’t worry.’ Alinor grasped the iron pot from the nun’s astounded hands. ‘I’ll take this now.’

‘But...’ Sister Beatrice’s bottom lip sagged down ‘...aren’t you going to talk to him?’

‘Later!’ Alinor turned away abruptly, heading for the refectory door, clasping the pot against her belly like a shield. Scampering down the wooden stairs, she walked swiftly along the open-sided cloister, the morning sun warming her left cheek. She cursed her own stupidity. How foolish she had been, sleeping the night away at the Priory. Why, in Heaven’s name, had she not returned home last night to warn her stepmother? As Bianca’s brother, Guilhem would naturally ask about Claverstock; it was where his sister was supposed to be, about to marry Alinor’s stepbrother! And if Guilhem failed to gain directions to Claverstock from her, then it wouldn’t be long before someone else told him.

Abandoning the porridge pot against the cloister wall, Alinor spun on her heel and began to run, linen veil flapping out. She had no time to change out of her nun’s garments; her only priority was to reach Claverstock before Guilhem did. Skin puckering with terror, her mind toiled frantically on a plan to leave the Priory as quickly and quietly as possible. The refectory was situated on the first floor of the west range; if Alinor cut through the storerooms on the ground floor, she could slip out towards the gatehouse unnoticed.

She almost made it.

A man came down the refectory stairs into the cloister to block her path. A blue surcoat clung to broad shoulders; silver embroidery winked and glittered in the sunlight. A slight breeze lifted strands of his hair, giving him a tousled look. Bright blue eyes, the colour of the sea, gleamed down at her as she skidded to a stop in front of him.

He folded his arms slowly across his chest, a human bulwark barricading her path. ‘Where are you going?’ Guilhem’s voice was stern, but friendly.

Alinor angled her neat head towards him. ‘Away from you,’ she muttered grumpily.

He smiled, ignoring her rudeness. ‘I think you can help me.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Listen, the sisters tell me you know the way to Claverstock. I have asked the Prioress to give you leave to show me and she has granted her permission.’

‘Oh, God, why?’ she blurted out, without thinking. She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to prevent further words from emerging. This whole situation was becoming worse and worse!

Guilhem laughed at her reaction. ‘Because I am a knight with Prince Edward and therefore she trusts me? And because I was under the mistaken impression that most nuns like to help people?’ he added scathingly. ‘And, unfortunately for me, it seems that you are the only person who knows the way.’ His voice held the hint of a question. ‘Believe me, if there were anyone else, I would pick them instead.’