Alys Clare - Girl In A Red Tunic

He is instantly aware of it and he turns to her, dropping the remaining stones. Very quietly he says, ‘Do not play with me, girl. I am not your puppy or your baby brother.’

The tension is back and now it crackles between them, all but visible. He has taken a step and now is very close. ‘How old are you?’

‘I shall be fifteen in three months’ time,’ she declares proudly. ‘My birthday is on the last day of July.’

‘I see.’ He frowns slightly. ‘I am twenty-seven and shall be twenty-eight on the first day of December.’

‘You do not look as old as that,’ she says, eager, she does not quite know why, to lessen this gap between them.

He smiles, and the expression enchants her. ‘And you, girl, are a woman, for all your tender years.’

‘I am,’ she agrees. She thinks she knows what he means and, although she has been brought up to consider such private feminine matters a secret to be concealed from men, somehow this training no longer seems relevant at all.

There is a moment of perfect stillness. They do not touch; their contact is through their eyes and through their senses, each seeking the other. Then he raises a hand and, with his finger, outlines the curve of her lips. He murmurs, ‘My father was quite right.’

She knows she should not ask but cannot prevent herself. ‘What did he say?’

That smile again. ‘He said that Ralf de Swansford has a beautiful daughter, who has her wits about her and looks as if she enjoys life and who is ripe for the plucking. He advised me to get in first before some other lucky man finds you.’

‘Oh!’ She is speechless; are men normally so bold?

As if he reads her reaction, he takes a step back, away from her, and he says, ‘Lady, I mean no disrespect. It is not fitting for us to be alone and for me to speak such words to you; believe me, I honour you.’

He looks so earnest, puts such stress on the word honour, that she does believe him. ‘You do not offend me, sir,’ she replies, eyes modestly cast down. Still looking at the ground, she adds, ‘Normally I am not permitted to ride out unaccompanied, I do assure you, for my father guards me well and likes me to be in the company of either my family or one of the servants.’

It is a prissy little speech and she is not at all surprised when he bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, Helewise!’ he says, still laughing. ‘You are a cherished and unblemished young bud; yes, I know that full well.’

She feels herself blush. Cross with herself — for her carefully nurtured virgin state is surely something she should be proud of? — she lifts her chin and says, ‘I have been raised to be a lady, sir. There is no shame in that.’

Instantly he is once more apologetic. ‘No, no, of course there isn’t and I am delighted to hear it. Please, forgive me for my laughter and for what you seem to perceive as my mockery — the laughter I cannot deny but I intended no jeering criticism and I am truly sorry if I did not make myself plain.’

Make myself plain … Her disordered thoughts prompt the comment, you could never be plain, but this is not, of course, what he meant.

‘Very well,’ she says politely. ‘I accept your apology.’

He bows. ‘Thank you, lady.’

She is tingling from the effect of his nearness — without her having noticed, he seems to have stepped closer again. She meets his eyes. Now he looks solemn, almost anxious. ‘I must go!’ she cries. Suddenly she wants to flee from him; she is afraid — of him, of herself; she does not know — and running back to the safety of home seems like a very good idea.

He bows again, as if in acknowledgement. ‘Yes,’ he says. Neither of them makes a move. Then he says in a rush, ‘Will you come here again? Tomorrow?’

Without one single second’s thought she says, ‘Yes.’

She spends a hectic night, her pounding blood not allowing her to rest. When at dawn she slips into an exhausted sleep, it is only to dream of him, a dream from which she awakes sweating and heavy with some strange sensation that seemed to promise more joy, more pleasure than she had imagined could exist.

She meets him the next day. They talk endlessly about themselves, each coming up with question after question, as if they would know the story of each other’s life from first memories to the present moment. He keeps his distance — he sits down on the pebbles an arm’s length from her — but, when they get up to leave, he takes her hand and kisses it. She is not sure but she thinks she feels his tongue touch against her hot skin. The sensations of the night tickle faintly through her body, an echo of their dark nocturnal power, and she has to turn away before he sees her confusion.

The next day they talk again. This time, when they part, he kisses her mouth. And, just as she had thought she would, she melts into him.

There is to be a celebration in the manor because it is May and, despite England’s Christian religion, the country people still honour the Old Ways and they do not forget. The Swansford family are all eagerly chatting about the arrangements for the day. Ralf de Swansford has, as he always does, offered the large meadow bordered by oak trees and a birch copse as a venue and already the villagers have erected a May Pole. A cooking fire will be built in a sheltered corner and a hog will be roasted. The Swansfords will provide most of the victuals but the peasants and the tenants will each bring what they can. Even in the poorest homes, men, women and children feel the thrill of the feast day and it costs nothing to pick wild flowers and make a garland.

Ralf has invited friends and neighbours to the celebration. He is delighted to say, he mentions with an attempt at casualness that does not fool his daughter for one moment, that Benedict Warin is coming. ‘And he tells me he is going to bring his son, Ivo,’ Ralf adds.

Helewise drops her head and meekly says, ‘Oh, that will be nice.’

As soon as she can she races away to find Elena. She has her recent gift of the length of sunshine-yellow silk and she wants Elena to help her make the most gorgeous gown that a girl ever wore. Elena, aware that something has happened to her young charge and pretty certain what it is, falls in readily with the plan. Helewise strips to her under-gown and Elena studies her through narrowed eyes. ‘You’re blossoming, young Helewise,’ she observes. Then, with a lascivious wink that makes Helewise laugh and, at the same time, sends her blood pounding, she says, ‘Blooming like a flower beneath some man’s scrutiny, is that it?’

Helewise does not answer. Instead she picks up the bolt of silk and lifts her arms in a wide gesture, spreading the lovely fabric and letting it settle around her. ‘What do you think, Elena?’ she asks. ‘Tight bodice and flowing skirt?

Elena goes ‘Mmm,’ in the sort of tone she has always used when aware that Helewise knows something that she doesn’t. Then, apparently giving in, she says, ‘Aye, my girl.’ With a grin, she adds, ‘Show off your assets, eh?’

They make a gown that is the most beautiful that Helewise has ever possessed. The silk — imported to France from Genoa and spun in Paris into a cloth that has a subtle self-coloured pattern of flowers and ivy leaves — is heavy and shines like the sun going down in the evening sky. It has a square, deep neckline that shows off the upper curves of Helewise’s smooth white breasts. The sleeves are narrow at the shoulder and flare widely at the wrists. The waist is tight-fitting and, at the hips, the glorious fabric flares out to a generous hem. Over the gown Helewise will wear a little bodice embroidered with pearls. Elena also makes an under-tunic in a deeper shade of yellow that is almost gold; it will show at wrist and neckline and it echoes the colour of Helewise’s red-gold hair.