Meriel Fuller - Commanded By The French Duke

Ignoring him, she bent over Edith again, attempting to hoist the frail body from the bed, praying that her weak arm wouldn’t let her down now, not here, not in front of this man. The ligaments in her spine gripped and stretched; her stomach clenched tightly. Sweat prickled on her brow, but Edith didn’t budge.

‘Out of my way.’ The big man moved in beside her impatiently, shoving at her with a swift nudge of his hip, his expression grim. Alinor tottered backwards, knocking into a stool, scowling furiously as he lifted Edith carefully from the bed, wrapped tightly in a heap of linens and blankets. Only the nun’s poor, bald head peeked out from the top of the blanket.

‘Where do I take her?’

‘I would have done it!’ she protested limply. ‘You didn’t give me enough time!’

Guilhem glanced at the main door, his mouth fixing into a firm, impenetrable line. ‘The other soldiers are being carried in now, so I suggest you lead me in the right direction or this old lady is going to have more of a shock than she deserves.’

He made her sound like a spoiled brat, thinking only of herself! ‘This way,’ Alinor bit out, fuming, swishing her skirts around with a brisk movement. She led him to a curving alcove set in the infirmary wall, indicating the uneven stone steps winding upwards from a central pillar. Daylight flooded down from a narrow, arched window set halfway up the stairwell.

‘It leads up to the second floor; there’s a small bedchamber up there.’

He ducked his head beneath the low lintel, powerful legs ascending the stairs easily, Edith’s head lolling against his thick upper arm, white skin pallid against silvery chainmail. Alinor’s breath caught in her throat; is this how he had carried her, after the Prince had hit her, senseless, unknowing, his hands clasped intimately about her body? Briefly, she closed her eyes in shame.

Kneeling on the bare floorboards, the knight laid Edith down on the pallet bed, adjusting the bedclothes so that they covered her bare feet. As he rose, his hair almost touched the serried rafters of the ceiling. Alinor hovered in the entrance to the stairwell, lips set in a mutinous line, rebellion coursing through her body. What was it about this man that made her behave so badly?

She jerked out of the way as he approached the stairs, whisking her skirts away dramatically to avoid all contact with him. ‘I suppose I should say thank you,’ Alinor bit out, grudgingly. ‘But I could have carried her.’

‘My God, you never give up, do you?’ he said, the toe of his boot knocking against her slipper by mistake. ‘It’s fortunate that you decided to give yourself to Christ, because I can’t imagine any man being able to deal with you. Your father must have blessed the day he sent you to the nunnery!’

Sadness whipped through her, sudden, violent. Her eyelashes dipped fractionally. ‘My father cursed the day I was born,’ she blurted out suddenly, her voice bitter. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

Guilhem thrust one hand through his tousled hair, the colour of rain-soaked wheat. ‘And for that I am sorry,’ he said, watching the raft of sorrow track across her pearly skin. He cupped her chin with one big hand, wanting to smooth the sadness away. His thumb swept across her cheek and, for a fraction of a moment, she stood there, savouring the sweet caress. The temptation to turn her head, to press her lips into the warm skin of his hand shot through her; her lashes fluttered downwards, momentarily. Her flesh hummed, treacherous.

What was she doing? Had she truly taken leave of her senses?

‘No,’ Alinor stuttered out. ‘I must go!’

She whipped away from him then, plunging down into the darkness of the stairwell, hand pressed tight to the spot where he had touched her, tears stinging her eyes.

* * *

The day slipped quietly into evening. Outside the tall infirmary windows, the sun sank, descending into a riot of luminous pinks and golds that streaked the darkening sky. Inside, the infirmary blazed with light: candles flickered and jumped in stone niches, rush torches had been slung into every iron bracket around the walls, revealing every lump and crack in the uneven plaster. A huge fire burned at one end of the chamber. Badly wounded soldiers filled the beds, heaped under linens and coarse woollen blankets, some shivering, some unconscious. Others rested on piles of straw near the fire, conversing in muted tones, or simply staring into space, eyes blank.

‘We were fortunate to find this place.’ Edward sighed, stretching his legs out towards the hearth, crossing his leather boots at the ankles. He brushed at a scuff of earth across his fawn-coloured legging. On a stone mantel, above the hearth, a gold cross glittered, set with pearls.

Sprawled in the oak chair, Guilhem flexed his fingers around the scrolled end of the armrest, the intricate wood carving knobbly beneath his thumb as he surveyed the nuns bustling around the men, amazed at the stoicism, the practised efficiency with which they worked. The sisters moved about gracefully, never hurrying, stiff linen veils like angel wings as they bandaged up bloody limbs and stitched up wounds with fine needles and sheep’s-gut thread. They never baulked at the enormity of the task; none of them had fainted, or turned squeamishly away at the sight of an ugly wound. As his eyes drifted across the space, he knew who he was searching for. The little nun with emerald eyes like limpid pools, whose tough and hostile manner intrigued him. He had seen the dip of her eyelashes as he had cupped her face, the slight parting of her lips, the faintest release of her breath at his brief touch. And yet here she was, trapped behind the veil, never to know of a man’s desire. His loins gripped.

‘Yes, we were lucky,’ he agreed finally, turning his attention back to Edward. What a senseless waste the day had been. They had met some of Simon de Montfort’s rebels on their way to Knighton. Forced to fight, there had been no winners, no losers; after that first terrifying skirmish, each side had slunk away to nurse their wounds, to recover. He accepted that Edward wanted to extract his father, the King, from the rebels, but at what cost? How many more men would they have to lose before they achieved such an aim?

‘You should ask one of the sisters to look at your injury,’ Edward said, his eyes swivelling to the rip in Guilhem’s tunic.

‘It’s nothing, just a scratch,’ he replied. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’

‘Here, you, come over here!’ Edward gestured towards a sister who carried a bowl of steaming water towards one of the beds. A sister with a large bruise on one cheek. The nun stopped and stared over at Edward with a haughty expression, clear, intelligent eyes mocking his command, the arrogant snapping of his fingers. ‘Yes, you!’ Edward demanded. ‘Bring that bowl of water and come over here.’

Guilhem’s breath quickened as she approached. Alinor. ‘God, Edward, will you leave it? That one would rather kill me, than cure me. It’s her, the nun from the bridge yesterday. Don’t you recognise her?’

Edward narrowed his eyes. ‘So it is. The squalling termagant. I’m sure she’ll do as she’s told after what happened.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Guilhem said. But his heart stirred in anticipation of her approach.

Alinor stopped by the chairs, setting the bowl of water down on an elm side table with deliberate slowness. Straightening, she bowed her head in deference to the Prince. ‘How may I help you, my lord?’

‘Guilhem has a wound that needs looking at.’ Edward tilted his head towards the man sitting next to him. ‘You need to sort it out.’ He yawned, turning away, uninterested.

* * *

Guilhem. So that was his name. Unusual, reminiscent of a calmness, a serenity, both qualities in which this knight seemed wholly lacking. Shadows carved out the hollows beneath his cheekbones, emphasising their prominence; blond stubble glinted on his chin, giving him a dangerous, devilish appearance. Breath shuddered in her throat, her belly plummeting. The skin on her face still smarted from his earlier touch. What was the matter with her? Men did not normally affect her like this: her father, her stepbrother, the various knights who visited her father’s estates—they were all the same, weren’t they? Either autocratic and boorish, or weak-willed and incompetent; sometimes all of those things. Her tongue wallowed like padded wool in her mouth, muffling words, stifling her speech. A wave of fluctuating uncertainty crashed over her; how did this man, this stranger, manage to burrow beneath her customary self-confidence and make her behave with such uncharacteristic vulnerability?