June Francis - Tamed by the Barbarian

She yawned and sank on to the bed. Her shoulders drooped as her heart ached with sorrow. She longed to lie down and escape into sleep. Mackillin! Was he being truthful when he’d said he wished for no reward? And what had he meant when he said that she would not wish to pay his price if he were to seek it? She remembered the feel of his lips on hers and the hardness of his chest against her breasts. Could he possibly have hinted that bedding her was the reward he would have demanded? The blood rushed to her cheeks and she got up hastily and went over to the chest at the foot of her bed.

She lifted the heavy lid and pushed it back, holding the lantern so she could peer inside. When her stepmother had died, Cicely, aided by her maid, had made mourning clothes to attend her funeral and had worn them almost constantly for months afterwards. Even though there would be no such service for her father here in Yorkshire, Cicely wanted to do everything possible to honour his memory and that meant dressing in a way that was fitting.

She put down the lantern and pulled out a black surcoat and unadorned black gown, knowing that a requiem mass must also be arranged. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand and she poured some into a bowl and washed her hands and face, drying them on a heavy cotton cloth that her father had brought from one of the great fairs in Europe. She removed her muddy shoes and the lamb’s-wool bags, as well as her outer garments. Then, over a cream woollen kirtle, she put on the black gown made from the finest wool that her father’s tenants’ flocks produced. On top of these, she fastened a silk-lined, padded surcoat, trimmed with sable, the fur having been shipped from the Baltic and bought in Bruges.

Again, she rummaged to the bottom of the chest and this time took out a sweet-smelling cedarwood box from its depths. She removed a girdle that was made of links formed in a pattern of silver leaves and fastened it about her hips before lifting a fine silver chain and crucifix from the box and fastening the chain about her neck. She found black ribands in a cloth bag, wove them through strands of her hair and braided them into two plaits. Lastly she slipped on heelless leather slippers before sitting on her bed and wondering what to do next.

Her emotions were in confusion and she felt too close to weeping to face the men downstairs just yet; especially the Scottish lord, whose eyes expressed much that his lips did not say. Lord or not, she still believed him a barbarian at heart. The manner in which he had swept her into his arms and kissed her had been truly shocking. She lay down on the bed, thinking of those moments. Her eyelids drooped and she told herself it was unseemly and sinful to still dwell on his kiss. Instead she should be praying for her father’s soul and considering what they should do when Matt returned. Her thoughts began to drift and, within minutes, she was asleep.

‘Where’s my sister?’ Jack, who had been dozing in front of the fire, blinked up at Martha who was setting the table.

‘I don’t know, Master Jack, but it’s a good four hours since Mistress Cicely came to the kitchen. Supper is ready to be served and we’ve had no word from her.’

‘Perhaps she’s in her bedchamber,’ suggested Mackillin.

Martha stared curiously at the Scottish lord and her plump face told him exactly what she made of him. ‘I’ll send Tabitha to look,’ she said.

So the maid went upstairs to her mistress’s bedchamber and found her slumbering. Uncertain what to do, and knowing Cicely had passed many a sleepless night, worrying about her father and brother, Tabitha was reluctant to disturb her mistress and went downstairs to tell of her discovery.

‘Dressed for mourning she is, and lying on top of her bed fast asleep. No doubt she’s exhausted, Master Jack. She’s been fretting for weeks, worrying herself about you and the master, as well as your stepbrother.’

The youth glanced at Mackillin. ‘Should I wake her?’

Mackillin wondered if she was truly asleep or whether she was pretending in order to escape his presence. Either way, it might be best if he were not to see her again before leaving in the morning. ‘Let your mistress rest, lass. Sleep is good for her at such a sad time. Make sure she is warm—I think we’re in for a cold night.’

‘And after you have done that, Tabby, fetch in the supper,’ ordered Jack.

‘And a bowl of water and a drying cloth,’ added Mackillin with a smile. ‘I’d like to wash my hands before I eat.’

Cicely started awake and for several moments lay in the darkness, wondering what had disturbed her sleep. She had been dreaming that she was being chased along a castle’s battlements, pursued by a large hound and a black-cloaked dark figure. Her heart pounded. Then she heard a shutter banging and the howling of the wind and, although reluctant to get out of bed because she was so snug, knew she had to silence that shutter.

As she sat up, the crucifix slid along its chain and she clasped it. It had been her mother’s and she only wore it on special occasions, never in bed. Memories of yesterday came flooding in and a sob broke from her. She would never again see her father’s smiling face or hear his deep voice speaking her name. For a moment her grief was such that she could not move, but the shutter banged again and a freezing draught blew across the room. She felt a dampness on her cheek. Pushing down the covers, she climbed out of bed.

No glow came from the charcoal brazier and the candle in her lantern had burnt down. How long had she been asleep? Was it late evening or the middle of the night? Her stomach rumbled. She had missed supper. Why hadn’t someone roused her? She remembered Mackillin and groaned. He would surely be thinking the worst of her. Then she asked herself why she should care about what he thought of her. In the morning he would be gone.

The shutter crashed against the stone wall outside once more and icy air gushed into the room. She shivered, remembering her father’s promise to bring her a sheet of the finest Flemish glass for her window opening. Her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, but she wished she had a light and fumbled for a fresh candle and her tinder box in the small cupboard next to the bed.

Another gust of wind fluttered the long sleeves and hem of her gown and she pulled a face, realising it was unlikely she’d get a decent spark in such a strong draught. She placed both items on the chest and crossed to the window. She reached through the aperture and was almost blinded by a flurry of snowflakes. She gasped and frantically groped for the shutter. A sigh of relief escaped her as her fingers touched wood, but she had a struggle pulling the shutter towards her. At last she managed to do so and fastened the hook securely before stepping back. The clothing chest caught her behind her knees and she fell on to it.

Wiping her damp face with her sleeve, she looked around and could just about make out the outline of the door to the stairway. Her stomach rumbled again. Why hadn’t she been roused? Perhaps Mackillin had got Jack drunk on her father’s wine and cut his throat and was even now plundering the household. Fear clutched her heart. Yet surely she was allowing her imagination to run away with her. Jack trusted him. Even so, she would not rest until she saw for herself that all was well.

She groped for the candle and tinder box, but it was just as hopeless trying to get a spark in the dark. Hopefully, she would find her way downstairs without a light. If she failed, then she would return to her bedchamber. She would not think about Jack lying there with his throat cut—or demons and apparitions, which some said were the souls of the dead come back to haunt the living. She thought of her father and prayed that God would accept him into Heaven. Clutching her crucifix, she felt her way along the wall to the door.