Joanna Makepeace - Dragon's Court

She closed her eyes and pictured him.

Dickon was a man to rely on, a man many women must have known—and loved—

She shied from the thought. Such a man was not made to marry. Any woman trusting enough to love him could soon find her heart broken when she became a widow. No, whatever her father wished, she would not allow herself to become fond of Richard Allard. She must dismiss all tender thoughts of him from her mind and concentrate on acquitting herself well at Court and—possibly—finding herself a wealthy and steady suitor who was as desirous of achieving success and a comfortable existence as she was herself.

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JOANNA MAKEPEACE

taught as head of English in a comprehensive school before leaving full-time to write. She lives in Leicester with her mother and a Jack Russell terrier called Jeff, and has written over thirty books under different pseudonyms. She loves the old romantic historical films, which she finds more exciting and relaxing than the newer ones.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

1499

Anne would have managed the rescue of the kitten without any need for assistance had not the hem of her gown caught on a branch of the apple tree she was climbing and caused her to lose balance and, for a dizzying moment, hang almost head down in space. She caught desperately at a lower branch and managed to pull herself to safety again and stayed for a while, winded, clutching at the rough bark of the tree’s stout trunk for dear life.

She regained her wits and her courage again eventually and saw she was safely ensconced on a stalwart branch about halfway up. The trouble was that her hem was still caught and, as she looked down, annoyed, and began to tug at it viciously, she discovered that her efforts were decidedly endangering the steadiness of her refuge.

She slithered until she was half-crouched, half-seated, and surveyed the terrain around her. The kitten remained on the topmost branch where it had retreated from the threat of Ned’s dog. It mewed pitifully and Anne shook her head at it regretfully.

“I’m sorry, Kitty,” she murmured, “but, for the present, you’ll either have to manage to descend by yourself or stay where you are.”

Frowning, she peered round to discover that Ned and the dog were no where in sight. Her thirteen-year-old brother had declared his intention of fishing in the Nene and the hound pup had given up the chase, abandoned the kitten and run off in the direction of his young master’s whistle to heel.

Fortunately this part of the manor orchard was close to the path leading up to the house. Someone, Anne thought grimly, would be sure to come along soon and it had never been her way throughout her sixteen years of life to give way to uncontrolled panic. Still, her position here was not only precarious but uncomfortable.

The weather was fine and bright this September morning of 1499 but it was growing much colder than it had been earlier this morning and she shivered and blew on her fingers. Her back was securely placed against the supporting trunk but she dared not wriggle too hard lest the branch she was actually seated on gave way. She was, she judged, probably more than six feet from the ground.

Only yesterday her lady mother had organised the household servants into the picking of the orchard fruit and most of them even now were engaged in sorting and laying the apples and pears out carefully in attic and barn to keep throughout the autumn and early winter months ahead.

Anne was warmly wrapped in hooded cloak and thick stockings and petticoats beneath her warm russet gown but the chill wind was beginning to permeate the frieze cloth of her cloak and she wished a groom or Ned, returning, would come soon now and release her from her uncomfortable perch. She prayed, though, it would not be her father.

Recently she had displeased him on more than one or two occasions and her mother had warned her many times about hoydenish behaviour. Scrambling up the apple tree would be considered so, she thought, and gave a heavy sigh.

If she came under her father’s disapproving eye again it could mean a sore back and she would have only herself to blame. She had been irritable and difficult for weeks now and Ned had castigated her scathingly for causing her father’s anger to fall not only on her head but on his as well. It had been to get out of the way of the disagreeable atmosphere of the house that he had taken himself off to the river.

She bit her lip thoughtfully. Her discontent had made itself felt only since Dionysia Gresham, their neighbour’s daughter and Anne’s closest friend, had been conducted to her place in the Countess of Chester’s household where she would wait upon that lady and, in time, be found a suitable husband.

That should not be too long, Anne mused, for Dionysia was pretty enough and gentle and good tempered to boot. Anne missed her friend and envied her her good fortune, and bitterly resented the fact that her own father had made it very plain that such a life amongst the great ones of the realm could never be hers.

A sound beneath her caused her to break off her reverie and glance cautiously downwards.

A man was peering up at her, shading his eyes from the glitter of the low September sun. She could not move sufficiently to have a clear view of his face but she could see he was wearing a brown hooded frieze cloak over a leather jack, stout brown woollen hose and that his leathern boots were mired with dust. His hood had fallen back and she saw he had a thick crop of untamed brown hair.

“Mistress Eve,” he called gaily, “are you willing to offer me the apple of temptation?”

He had been carrying a canvas pack of some sort which he had deposited at the foot of the tree as he stood, hands on hips, regarding her. He was possibly a travelling chapman, she decided. She did not know him and if he could be persuaded to rescue her before anyone came who did, she would be at a greater advantage when explaining to her mother about the tear in her gown.

She said tartly, “You can see surely, fellow, that all the apples are picked. My hem is caught on that branch. Please free me.”

He looked round for the offending branch and made a sign.

“I see it. Stay where you are, quite still. That branch you are resting on looks somewhat too frail to hold your weight much longer. Hang on to the trunk.”

Did he think her a fool? she thought dourly. Of course she intended hanging on for grim life. Once he started to shake that lower branch it could unseat her.

She saw now, with some trepidation as he approached the tree, that he was a big man, powerfully built, and she prayed he would not use too much effort in disentangling her hem and cause the bough to shake further and dislodge her. In actual fact, he proved to be surprisingly gentle and dextrous. He was tall enough to reach up and free the hem without needing to climb and Anne was surprised when he called up to her that the material was now free.