Commanded By The French Duke. Meriel Fuller
coarse linen sheets and a motley collection of woven blankets lay on top of each bed.
Only one of the beds was occupied at the moment. Sister Edith, one of the more elderly nuns, had come in a few days ago complaining of stomach pains, which had developed into vomiting and fever. Now she lay on her back in the bed, a motionless doll-like figure under a heap of blankets. She had stopped being sick, yet still she shivered, moaning occasionally. Alinor jumped down from the window ledge and moved over to her, dipping a flannel into a bowl of cool water beside the bed, and placing it gently across Edith’s forehead. She was worried about her; so worried that she had stayed the night at the convent, lying restlessly in the pallet bed next to her, alert and wakeful to Edith’s shallow breathing. She hadn’t even had time to visit Bianca today. She would go this evening, when there would be more sisters around to tend to Edith.
‘Any change?’ Maeve, the Prioress of Odstock, swept into the infirmary, flanked by two young novices. A tall, imposing woman, Maeve had a reputation for being strict, but fair. Alinor held a great deal of respect for her; the Prioress had held her mother in her arms as she had finally succumbed to the fever that had gripped her for days, and would help Alinor whenever she could. And in return, Alinor helped the nuns with her healing skills, learned from an early age at her mother’s knee; she even had her own bed at the Priory, which allowed her to come and go as she pleased.
Alinor tilted her head to one side. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what Maeve would say if she told her about the girl hidden in the cellars. But the Prioress was a stickler for rules; if she found out about the Queen’s wish for Bianca to marry Eustace, she would probably send the poor girl straight back to Alinor’s home and to her conniving stepmother. No, she couldn’t risk that. Helping Bianca leave the country was something she would have to do on her own, hopefully with Ralph’s help.
‘Have you put any ointment on that bruise yet?’ Maeve barked at her, her light-brown eyes swiftly assessing the patchy marks on Alinor’s cheek. The sparseness of her eyelashes made her facial features more prominent: a large, beak-like nose, the white expanse of lined forehead, shaved eyebrows.
‘Yes, yes, I have,’ Alinor reassured her. She had dabbed her cheek with foul-smelling unguent that very morning, when she had woken in the pallet bed next to the ailing nun.
Maeve peered at her critically. ‘It looks nasty. How did you say it happened again?’
‘I was stupid, I knocked it on one of the outposts of the cart, yesterday.’ She threw her a twisted smile. ‘As usual, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
Maeve smiled. ‘Oh, Alinor, as clumsy as your mother was.’ She clasped her bony fingers in front of her swinging cross. ‘But also as good at selling. Your mother also knew how to drive a hard bargain. Thank you for all that coin; it will certainly keep us through the winter.’
And to think I nearly lost it all, thought Alinor. The risks I took. A hollowness suddenly emptied her stomach, the washcloth tightening between her fingers, drips running down on to the woollen blanket.
‘You look pale, Alinor. Go and fetch yourself something to eat; there’s food out in the refectory. I’ll watch Edith for a while.’ Maeve eased the washcloth from Alinor’s fingers and settled herself on the three-legged stool next to Edith’s bed.
‘I need to pick one other plant which might help her,’ Alinor said.
‘Fine, but don’t leave the Priory at the moment. There have been reports of fighting between the royalists and the rebels nearby. I wouldn’t want you to become caught up in something like that.’
A surcoat of red and gold surged in her mind’s eye; she dashed the vivid memory away. ‘No, I won’t go home today. I wanted to see how Edith fares.’ And to make sure Bianca leaves safely, she thought. Besides, she had no wish to return home to face her stepmother. She was better off at the Priory.
* * *
During the morning, the cloud had thickened steadily; the day was sunless, overcast, with a fitful breeze. As Alinor walked through the arch in the ivy-clad wall to the vegetable gardens, leaves chased along the cobbled path before her, silver-backed, yellowing, as if tossed by an unseen hand. A gust of wind eddied around her skirts, blowing them sideways, but after being cooped in with Edith all morning, she relished the fresh air against her skin. From a line of billowing oaks to the north, a gaggle of black crows flew up, sharply, wings beating furiously against the powerful currents of air.
Eyes watering in the cool air, Alinor strode briskly, past the neat rows of root vegetables: the carrots, turnips and swedes ready to be lifted and stored for winter. Her herb plot lay to the rear of the gardens; here, she grew the flowers and plants that went to make up her tinctures and ointments. Leaning over, she plucked several leaves of feverfew, and some mint as well, for flavour, stuffing them in the linen pouch that hung from her girdle.
‘Alinor! Alinor!’ Her name, carried along on the brisk breeze. Someone was calling her! Turning abruptly, she glanced back at the Priory windows and then over to the infirmary. A drab white veil blew out from the window; one of the novices was waving at her, yelling her name. Oh, God, she thought, it must be Edith! Alinor sprinted back across the gardens, her slender legs carrying her through the inner courtyard of the Priory, past the cloisters and out through a small arched doorway on the southern side which would lead her back to the infirmary.
She stopped.
Her heart clenched, squeezed with fear.
Fingers searching wildly behind her, she scrabbled, clutched at the door, the doorframe, the surrounding stone arch; anything that would give her some support, some stability. No, no, no! It couldn’t be! Her inner voice screamed denial even as her eyes told her what was true. Breath surged in her lungs; she sagged back against the cold stone. Before her, clustered in front of the infirmary was a group of about thirty knights, dusty, dirty, bloodied. Some sat on the ground, propped up by others, obviously wounded; others lay flat out on makeshift stretchers, faces drawn and white, eyes closed. Several soldiers held the large-muscled warhorses in a group, the animals obviously nervous, pawing the ground, enormous eyes rolling.
At the centre of the mêlée stood Prince Edward, head bent in conversation with the Prioress.
And him.
The broad-shouldered knight who had carried her kicking and screaming from the bridge, with his eyes of midnight blue, his shock of tawny hair. He was there.
Fear spiked her veins; she rocked slightly, wondering if she could sink back into the shadows without anyone noticing her. But before she had the chance, Maeve turned her head, brown eyes homing in on the figure in the archway. Bony, arthritic fingers beckoned imperiously, signalling to Alinor. Straightening her spine, Alinor blundered out into the open, wobbling legs scarcely carrying her across the cropped wispy grass. These men wouldn’t recognise her, surely; even now, the other sisters were coming out to help, streaming out from the cloisters, from the chapel, all dressed in exactly the same way as Alinor. She would blend in, hidden amongst the rest of the nuns.
Edging her way through the soldiers, she reached Maeve. Prince Edward was already moving amongst his men, shouting orders, commanding the more able knights to carry the injured soldiers into the infirmary. Of the other knight, there was no immediate sign; Alinor kept her eyes pinned to Maeve, unwilling to twist her head and find him right behind her. Her muscles hummed with the strain of keeping herself held tightly in, wanting to remain unnoticed, slipping through this crowd of soldiers like a ghost.
‘Come, let us help these soldiers before they bleed to death on our doorstep,’ Maeve ordered the nuns who clustered about her. Her keen gaze whipped about, directing the sisters to the men who needed the most help, making sure her commands were carried out. As Alinor moved to follow out Maeve’s orders, her head lowered, the Prioress caught her arm. ‘Alinor, wait, go into the infirmary and ask one of the novices to help you carry Sister Edith up to the bed on the second floor; I can’t have her downstairs with all these men.’