June Francis - MAIDEN in the Tudor Court

‘You are an extremely modest young man if you can resist preening in front of a mirror. Most youths of your age are obsessed by the growth on their faces.’ He dipped his spoon into the bowl of barley broth and waited for her reaction.

Rosamund’s stomach clenched. She had given no thought to the male need to shave. ‘I am not most youths,’ she muttered.

‘I would agree,’ said Alex smoothly. ‘How old are you?’

She hesitated and decided it would serve her best to not give her proper age. ‘I have seen eighteen summers.’

‘Then you are young to know much about women or to have a beard.’

‘I know enough about them to know what they want from a man,’ she retorted without thinking.

Her reply amused him and he gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Your confidence amazes me. I am twenty-eight years old and I reckon I will find women difficult to understand till the day I die.’

Rosamund realised her mistake in giving such a confident answer. She picked up her spoon with unsteady fingers. ‘You don’t have a wife?’

‘No. I enjoy travelling too much to give much thought to marriage. Although, one day I will need to settle down, for I would like to have children. But not yet.’

‘Tell me, do you consider women greatly inferior to men and good for nought but keeping house and bearing babies?’

Alex wondered who had said that to her. ‘Is it not a woman’s role to keep house and give her husband children? Even my grandmother believed that was only right. She was an intelligent woman who organised the family business when both my grandfather and I were away from home. She was wont to say that it was in her blood, for it was what the womenfolk of the Vikings of old had to do when their men were away for months—even years, sometimes. Unfortunately, except for my mother, all her children died in infancy.’

‘How sad,’ murmured Rosamund, dunking bread in her soup. ‘I was told that the Vikings were bloodthirsty warriors who raided our coast.’ She shot him a challenging look.

‘Ach! The Danes and Norsemen might have been warriors, but according to my grandmother, who has Danish blood, they were also farmers, fishermen and traders. Their womenfolk had to be strong, not knowing if their husbands or sons would ever return. They had to be both mother and father to their children. Our folklore speaks of many a mythical heroine who bested the men.’

‘The men must not have liked that,’ said Rosamund, encouraged by hearing of such brave women.

‘The men transformed some women into monsters when they told their tales round their fires in the great halls. I remember hearing of the Valkyries, or Odin’s Maids as they are also named.’ His eyes darkened as he remembered Ingrid referring to herself as one such maid—that was when she was not boasting of being a descendent of Lady Ingeborg Knutsdotter.

Rosamund smiled. ‘I would hear more of them. I know of Odin. My brother used to tell me tales of the old gods when I was a child. Of Thor and his hammer and how he—’ She stopped abruptly and looked confused. ‘I had forgotten about that until you reminded me. How strange.’

‘The mind has a habit of throwing up the unexpected,’ he said softly. ‘Do not let it disturb you. It has happened to me often since I received that blow on the head that rendered me unconscious. Do you remember aught else about your brother?’

‘I was told that he had drowned.’ She hesitated. ‘For years I had dreams in which I saw him being carried away, but my stepmother said I was hallucinating and quite mad. There have been times when I wished that I had died like my mother and brother.’

Alex frowned. ‘You should never wish death upon yourself. Life is for living, however painful it might be.’

She flushed. ‘I know such thoughts are sinful, but my life was difficult after their deaths. I have long believed Lady Monica hated me because of my mother.’

Alex reflected on the selfishness of parents and the vulnerability of children. Had Sir James been aware of Lady Monica’s treatment of his daughter? He remembered her mention of stepbrothers.

‘What about Lady Monica’s sons?’ he asked.

Suddenly Rosamund realised that she had been talking too much and wondered if the question was meant to trick her. She knew so little about this foreigner, not even his name. ‘I have said enough,’ she murmured, wondering what it was about this man that had so loosened her tongue—or perhaps it was the wine that had done that?

Alex would have liked to have continued the conversation, but decided that tomorrow would be soon enough to resume their conversation. So he ate his supper; when she had finished eating, he removed the tray. He returned to discover that she had fallen asleep curled up in her cloak, and seeing her so vulnerable, his instincts were to protect her. Then he told himself he must not allow his feelings to soften too much towards her. He already knew her to be a liar. Yet he found himself picking up the blanket folded at the foot of her pallet and covering her with it. Then he placed his saddlebags between them, settled himself on his own pallet and almost immediately fell asleep.

Rosamund woke, feeling snug and comfortable until she realised that she was using the Swedish man’s saddlebags as a pillow. There was also a weight on her chest and a heaviness on her hip. She started up in fright and attempted to move her sleeping companion’s hand without waking him.

Alex was having a nightmare and surfaced from fathoms deep, believing himself under attack. His hand curled on a slender hose-clad thigh and he struggled to free his other one that was being held. He dragged his hand free and the next moment had drawn his dagger and was astride his assailant with the blade against his throat.

Rosamund squealed and dug her fingernails into the back of his hand. ‘I beg you don’t kill me! I have no weapon!’

Alex paused, blinked and stared down into the panicstricken face. Now he was aware of the curve of a very feminine hip against his thigh and felt a stirring in his loins. He watched the soft lips part and the tip of her tongue dart nervously along her upper lip and felt an overwhelming urge to plunder her mouth with lips and tongue. A long moment passed and he could feel the pulse in her neck racing against his fingers. The blueviolet eyes appeared larger than usual as they entreated him not to hurt her. He loosened his grip and backed away. Deeply disturbed by the feelings she had roused in him, he moved away from her over to the window.

A stupefied Rosamund could scarcely believe that from being convinced he might kill her, several heartthudding moments later, she was persuaded that he had been about to kiss her. What madness was that? Surely if she had betrayed herself and he knew her to be a woman, then he would have turned away in disgust? She told herself that it might yet happen.

Warily, she gazed at his back and then her scrutiny lowered to his tapering waist and then even lower. She stared at the length of his long, muscular legs in the tightly fitting hose as he stood there, unmoving for several moments. Then he shook his head, yawned and stretched. Transfixed, she watched the hem of his shirt ride up over his thighs to reveal the swell of his buttocks beneath the hose. Blushing fiercely, she turned her back on him.

When face to face with him once more, it was to see that he had donned doublet and boots. ‘We’ve slept too long,’ he said, averting his eyes from her flushed face. ‘Get yourself up, Master Wood.’

Rosamund wasted no time in doing so. ‘Does the late hour and such haste mean that we do not have time to break our fast?’ she asked gruffly.

‘We’ll eat in the saddle,’ he replied. ‘I’ll speak to the innkeeper about food and then fetch the horse.’