Commanded By The French Duke

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.’

Maeve appeared at the top of the refectory stairs, her tall reed-thin figure framed by the thick oak doorposts. ‘Ah, there you are.’ Her calm, melodic tones drifted down. ‘Can you take him, Alinor?’

She dipped her head slowly in agreement. The strength sapped from her limbs; a debilitating weakness creeping across her body. Halfway between her mouth and her lungs, her breath snared. A horrible feeling of entrapment engulfed her, a tangled net from which she could not escape.

‘Follow me,’ said Guilhem. ‘My horse is this way.’

* * *

A long open-fronted barn served as a makeshift stable at the Priory; a thatched roof tilted down to a low stone wall at the back, rough-cut posts supporting the roof at the front. Horses crammed into the shelter, rumps against rumps, wheeling their heads around as Guilhem and Alinor approached. The barn sat in shadow; thick dew daubed the long grass alongside, strings of diamonds in the limpid light.

Guilhem fetched his saddle and bridle from the storeroom and lowered them to the ground. Diving into the mass of horseflesh with the bridle swinging from his hand, he extracted his horse with ease, leading the glossy, black stallion out of the heaving, snorting mass.

‘Where’s yours?’ He fastened the bridle with deft fingers around the horse’s nose, settling the metal bit between the great yellow teeth, his eyebrow tipping upwards in question. The horse pawed at the cobbles with his great hooves, a hideous scraping sound, his forelocks feathered with an abundance of black hair. Alinor backed away, breath quickening in her lungs. Nausea trickled through her stomach, a faint queasiness. The fear hadn’t gone away, then. Maybe it never would. Unconsciously, she rubbed at her arm, the twisted flesh hiding beneath the long sleeve of her nun’s habit.