Commanded By The French Duke. Meriel Fuller
brother,’ Alinor gasped out. ‘It’s your brother, Guilhem! Upstairs!’
Bianca frowned. ‘No, you must be mistaken. Guilhem isn’t in this country. He’s fighting in France, in Gascony with Prince Edward. ‘
Alinor forced herself to calm down, to slow her racing blood. Slinging the torch into an iron bracket, she took Bianca’s slim hands between her own. ‘Bianca, believe me, or at least, believe the Prioress who told me. Guilhem is sitting in our infirmary before the fire, with a wound to his shoulder.’
Bianca arched one eyebrow, her expression sceptical. ‘What does he look like, then?’ Her tone was challenging, brimming with disbelief.
‘Look like? Well, he’s...tall and well built.’ Sensation licked over her, warm, treacherous. ‘And...and his hair is exactly the same colour as yours...a tawny colour. His eyes are blue, a deep, deep blue, with long black eyelashes.’ Alinor chewed on a nail. ‘And he asks too many questions for my liking. He’s too interested, too curious.’
‘Oh, sweet Heaven.’ A pallid greyness washed Bianca’s face. ‘He’s really there, isn’t he?’
‘He is.’ This was not the reaction Alinor had been expecting from Bianca. Why wasn’t she pleased? ‘What’s the matter? I thought you’d be so happy to find out that he was here...’
‘You haven’t told him about me, have you?’ Bianca plucked at Alinor’s sleeve, openly agitated.
‘Of course not,’ Alinor replied promptly. ‘But don’t you see, Bianca, he’s the solution to our problem; he can take you across the Channel and take you home.’
Bianca slumped to one side, her eyes wide and frightened. ‘Guilhem is the last person I want to see. He cannot know I am here. He would make me go back. He would make me go back to Eustace and force me to marry him.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t do that, if he knew what my stepmother tried to do.’
‘He wouldn’t believe me, or us. He would say we’re making it up, that we were being hysterical.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we—’
‘Alinor, stop it!’ Bianca’s voice was sharp, rattling out on a thread of anxiety. ‘My mother told me that it was Guilhem who finally convinced her that marriage to Eustace was the best thing for me. With our father gone, she needed his approval, despite my own misgivings. Do you think I wanted to leave my home? I never wanted to come to England!’ She sobbed, burying her face into her palms. ‘I saw the letter Guilhem wrote to our mother from Gascony, giving his consent.’ She hunched her shoulders forward into her chest. ‘My mother was flattered that the Queen had arranged it for us, it was seen as a “good” marriage, uniting France with England, strengthening the ties between the two countries. I never wanted it. But what choice did I have when my brother had written the letter insisting that I go through with it?’
‘Oh, Bianca, I’m so sorry,’ Alinor whispered, dropping down beside her, hugging her. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ The cellar air clung to her skin, a slick of chill perspiration.
Bianca lifted her face. Tears tracked down her wan cheeks, glistening in the torchlight. ‘I’m sorry, Alinor, you’ll have to think of something else. Someone else. There is no way I am going anywhere with Guilhem.’
* * *
Something was banging away incessantly inside his head. Loud. Insistent. Hitching up into a seated position, Guilhem scrubbed at his face, trying to rub away the last vestiges of sleep, to clear the fog from his brain, and squinted towards the narrow window. Outside, it was still dark; the clanging noise continued. Throwing back the covers, he strode barefoot over to the window, linen undergarments clinging to his brawny thighs, and peered out into the blackness. The church bell tolling sonorously, summoning the nuns to early prayers. Veiled figures filed across the courtyard, heads bowed. Was she there, among them? His breath snagged. Alinor. She resented every last bit of his presence, and yet, the more hostile she was towards him, the more he was drawn to her. A woman who had taken her vows. An innocent. He should know better. And yet he couldn’t forget the tempting jut of her hip as she brushed past him in that voluminous sack of a gown, the silken perfection of her skin when he had touched her face yesterday. The images tormented him. His gaze ran back and forth along the line of pale-coloured veils and swinging rosaries, but he failed to spot her. Disappointment carved through him; he frowned at the odd sensation.
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.