June Francis - MAIDEN in the Tudor Court

Alex moved swiftly to relieve her of her burden. ‘Allow me,’ he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Rosamund had no choice but to hand it over to him, though could not resist saying, ‘I know you are the stronger man, but I could have managed it, you know.’

Alex realised his mistake in rushing to her aid and instantly tried to rectify it. ‘Why must you be on the defensive, young Master Wood? We have both had a long day and are weary. Get inside and leave me to finish tending my own horse.’

Rosamund did not move, remembering the noise of the men drinking in the tap room. What if one were to come out and pick a fight with her? ‘I would rather wait here,’ she said.

Alex shrugged. ‘Please yourself. I am not your keeper.’

Are you not? she almost said.

Alex decided to test her. ‘Do you have a mother?’

‘She is dead. Died when I was just a child. What about you?’

Alex decided that it should do no harm telling her a little about himself—it might encourage her to talk more. ‘My mother died shortly after I was born.’

‘So who looked after you?’

‘A wet nurse and my grandparents.’ Alex recalled his grandmother telling him that his mother, Maria Nilsson, had gone to Scotland in the train of Princess Margaret of Denmark on the occasion of her marriage to Scotland’s then king. She was a widow and the Earl Douglas already married when they met. Apparently the affair had lasted several years. Maria had given birth to him in Scotland and he had been named Alexander Christian. His mother had died a week later.

‘What about your father?’

The muscles of Alex’s face stiffened, remembering as a boy asking his grandparents about his father. They had told him that Christian Nilsson had been a mighty soldier, killed in a battle with the Danes before Alex was born. He had grown up, believing himself to be the son of a Swedish soldier hero, and was proud of the fact. He had been devastated when he had discovered that he was Earl Douglas’s bastard instead of the son of the Swedish hero.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Rosamund softly. She had been watching his expression and hazarded that his thoughts were not happy ones.

‘My father had naught to do with my upbringing,’ he said tersely. ‘I was reared by my grandparents in Sweden.’

‘So you are Swedish,’ said Rosamund, satisfied that she now knew where he came from. ‘I have heard that the sun scarcely rises there in the winter.’

Alex made no comment, only saying, ‘You can go inside now. I’ll only be a moment here. Perhaps you can carry the saddlebags.’

She was disappointed that he was not prepared to tell her more about his country. She hastened to pick up the saddlebags and managed to sling them over her shoulder in what she deemed a manly fashion.

Alex rolled his eyes and picked up the saddle. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished, Master Wood.’

She agreed that she was hungry and followed him out and remained hard on his heels as they crossed the darkened stable yard. Alex had a word with the innkeeper before leading the way upstairs.

The sleeping chamber was not as large as she had imagined and the air was exceeding chilly. She soon discovered that the pallet and blanket were damp, but did not comment, unlike Alex. ‘This will not do,’ he muttered, bundling pallets and blankets beneath his arm and leaving her alone in the darkened bedchamber. She would have followed him, but the thought of facing the raucous crowd downstairs was enough for her to stay put. She perched on his saddle and hoped he would not be too long.

Rosamund had no idea how long she was there before she heard someone coming upstairs. Instantly, she rose to her feet and went to open the door. A buxom woman stood there, carrying a lantern in one hand and a pitcher in the other. ‘Here you are, young master.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rosamund gruffly, taking both from her.

The woman entered the sleeping chamber. ‘Your mate is making a right fuss downstairs. Yer’d think he owned the bloody place. A furriner, too. He wants to watch his step.’

‘The pallets and blankets were damp,’ said Rosamund, placing the lantern and pitcher on the floor. ‘He paid good money for hiring this chamber.’

The woman sniggered and brushed against her. ‘There’s more than one way of keeping warm, young master.’ She placed a hand on Rosamund’s thigh.

Shocked, Rosamund reacted by pushing her away. ‘Get out of here,’ she said roughly.

‘Oh, we’ve a haughty one here, have we? Or are yer one of them?’ She placed a hand on her hip and swayed about the room.

Rosamund watched her uneasily. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Will you leave!’

The woman ignored her and went over to the saddlebags on the floor. ‘What have we in here?’

Rosamund rushed over to her. ‘Leave them alone! They’re not your property.’

‘What is going on here?’ said Alex.

Rosamund felt a rush of relief as she whirled round to see him standing in the doorway. She noticed that he had slung the bedding over his shoulder and carried a tray. ‘This woman is being offensive,’ she said stiffly.

He thrust the tray at Rosamund, but before he could lay a hand on the woman she scuttled past him and out of the door. Alex slammed it behind her and locked it. He dropped the bedding on the floor and stared at Rosamund. ‘What did she do?’

Her cheeks reddened. ‘I’d rather not say.’ She breathed in the appetising smell of the broth and placed the tray on the floor. ‘Now you’re here, she’ll not come back.’

Alex had some idea of what the serving wench might have said to her and thought that must have given Master Wood a fright. ‘I had the innkeeper’s wife air the bedding in front of her fire. She was willing to do so for an extra penny.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Rosamund. ‘One can buy a lot for a penny.’

Alex realised he had made a mistake by revealing he was not short of money. ‘I deemed it worth it and we did not have to pay for our shelter last night. As for that wench, she was no one of importance, so you can forget aught that she said.’ He took off his hat and his fair hair seemed to glow in the lantern light.

Her breath caught in her throat and for a moment she could only stare at that handsome leonine head. Then she pulled herself together and went over to the pallets and rolled them out several feet from each other on each side of the tray.

Alex picked up the lantern and pitcher and put them close by so they could see what they were eating and removed his gloves. ‘The broth smells good,’ he said.

She agreed and removed her own gloves, but decided against taking off her hat. She lowered herself on to the pallet and eased off her boots before reaching for one of the bowls. She placed it at her side on the wooden floor.

Alex glanced her way and noticed that the lantern cast light on her weary face with its delicate nose and generously curved lips. He considered how not a word of complaint had escaped her that day and could not help but admire her stamina. He reached for the jug of mulled wine and poured her a drink and decided to test her further.

‘Have you ever paid court to a woman, Master Wood?’ he asked casually.

Rosamund was in the act of tearing bread from the loaf and almost dropped it. She paused. ‘No. I do not have the means to support a wife…and besides, I doubt a woman would find me to her taste.’

‘Why? You’ve a handsome face,’ said Alex, pushing the cup across the floor to her.

Rosamund looked at him in astonishment before picking up the cup and taking a thirsty gulp of the warm liquid. ‘My stepbrothers told me I was ugly. I confess I am not in the habit of gazing at myself in a looking glass.’