Meriel Fuller - Commanded By The French Duke

As the sun rose, the air became unseasonably muggy, oppressive. Clouds of midges rose up, dancing above dank wet spots beside the track. Parched leaves, edges curled up and blackened, drifted down from the few trees dotted here and there in the sloping fields that ran down to the path, catching under the cart wheels with a dry rustle. The scant, shifting breeze carried a sharpness, a forerunner of winter.

‘It’s not far now, mistress,’ Ralph said, across the incessant noise of the squeaking wheel. ‘The bridge is around this next bend.’

And then the river was before them, startling, glinting silver. Water rushed, cackling throatily across the stones at the shallow, stone-strewn edges. In the middle, the river was deep and fast-flowing, the surge of current too dangerous for a horse or person to cross safely. A narrow packhorse bridge spanned the gurgling flow with four stone arches, rising steeply at the centre to counter any problems with flooding in winter.

Clusters of brown-winged seeds bunched beneath the yellowing leaves of the sycamores by the river’s edge; a few spun down, circling crazily around her, landing on her shoulders, her lap. ‘Quick, let’s cross it before someone comes the other way!’ Alinor grasped at Ralph’s arm. ‘I want to get to the market before noon.’

‘There’s no one around, mistress,’ Ralph said, pushing back his chestnut hair, the smooth strands flopping across his brow. ‘It’s too early for most folks.’ Pulling on the reins, he guided the oxen towards the flared stone entrance of the bridge, their hooves slipping on the steep ascent of greasy cobbles. He drove the animals along carefully, their heads nodding in unison as he steered them between the stone parapets. As they passed the middle of the bridge, an ominous crack sounded from the squeaking wheel, followed by a sickening sound of crunching wood. The cart tipped violently, the right side dropping down with a significant jolt.

‘Oh!’ Alinor’s arms flailed outwards, instinctively seeking to steady herself as she was thrown to one side. For one horrible moment she thought she would lose her balance and tip straight into the whirling river below, but Ralph grabbed her arm, hauling her back.

‘Damn it!’ he cursed in annoyance, pushing distracted fingers through his hair. ‘Wait here, my lady, and hold the animals while I see what’s happened.’ Squeezing his brawny frame between the stone parapet and the cart, he ducked beneath.

She heard a muffled groan. ‘The axle’s broken,’ Ralph shouted up to her, coming back. ‘I’ll have to fetch some help before we can shift this thing.’

‘Then I’ll come with you,’ Alinor said, shuffling to the edge of the seat.

Ralph held up a hand to forestall her. ‘Probably best if you stay here, my lady.’ He glanced at the voluminous fabric that spilled out from her girdle and draped over the seat, material that would hamper her stride. ‘With the greatest respect, I can move more quickly on my own. Besides, someone needs to stay with the cart; those sacks of grain are worth a lot of money.’

‘A whole winter’s worth,’ Alinor agreed. Ralph’s words made sense.

‘Will you be all right on your own, my lady? I’ll not be gone long. I seem to remember passing a farmstead a couple of fields back.’

‘Of course,’ she replied confidently. ‘I have my dagger—’ she touched the leather scabbard hanging from her plaited waist belt ‘—and no one would ever dream of attacking a lay sister, or at least someone dressed as one!’

Ralph laughed. ‘Not unless they wanted to risk eternal hell and damnation!’ He waved casually and loped off along the way they had come.

Alinor sighed. Wriggling her spine against the cart seat, she allowed the reins to drop beside her. Out of habit, she kneaded her left forearm, trying to alleviate the slight, constant ache that had plagued her since her accident, a small frown crinkling the skin between her finely etched brows. The oxen stood patiently, ears flicking idly at the flies massing above their heads. There were more trees now, along the river: sturdy beech, willow, stubby hawthorn dotted the flat, wide valley. The earlier cloud had dispersed and now the rising sun filtered through the shifting leaf canopy, casting a dappled glow.

A warmth suffused her body. Closing her eyes, she lifted her chin, drinking in the balmy heat across her skin. If only she could forget, for a moment, what had nearly happened. The breathless rush as she had helped the girl into her clothes; the headlong sprint across the moon-soaked land, huddled together in hooded cloaks, hiding behind trees, stealing along ditches like thieves. A long, juddering breath caught in her chest at her own daring, the subterfuge. There was no knowing what her stepmother would do if she discovered the truth of what Alinor had done.

‘Make way, in the name of Prince Edward!’ A harsh, guttural voice barged into her senses. Alinor’s eyes popped open in horror; she jumped to her feet, panic slicing her innards. A group of horsemen were gathered on the other side of the bridge; nay, not horsemen, knights, for they wore helmets and chainmail, their red surcoats emblazoned with three gold lions. The mark of the King, and his son, Prince Edward!

Her chest hollowed out in fear, a debilitating weakness hammering through her knees; she wondered if she would fall. God in Heaven, where had they sprung from? They had approached so quietly, it was as if they had materialised from the very trees, like ghosts, ghastly apparitions!

‘We need to cross this bridge,’ one of the soldiers shouted up at her, hoarse tones emanating from a shiny metal helmet. ‘Move the cart now, Sister!’

Sister. Of course, from her garments they believed her to be a nun. Alinor stared at them, terrified, trying to find the words, the courage to address this formidable group. A dozen men or so, chainmail hauberks glinting and winking in the sunlight, lower legs encased in riveted plate armour. They were armed: swords, pikes, maces and shields; the lead knight carried the King’s red banner on a pennant. Her mouth was parched, fear cleaving her tongue to the roof of her mouth. What would they do to her, these soldiers of the King? ‘I...I cannot,’ she managed to say, but her voice emerged as a pathetic whimper and they failed to hear.

‘Speak up, woman,’ the lead soldier bawled at her, leaning forward in his saddle as if to hear her more clearly. ‘What ails you? Why do you not move?’ He threw a comment back to his companions; they laughed in response.

Alinor flushed; no doubt the soldier’s words had been derogatory. She cleared her throat, summoning up the power in her lungs, the nerve to speak more loudly. What was the matter with her? It was not like her to be intimidated by knights; she came from a high-ranking family who had entertained the King and Queen and their entourage on several occasions. She had a perfect right to be here, on this bridge, as much as the next man, and anyone could have an accident, couldn’t they?

‘The axle is broken on the cart,’ she shouted out in loud, clear tones, tilting up her nose in the hope of projecting an air of superiority. ‘The servant has gone to fetch help; he should be back very soon.’ Beneath the folds of her gown, she crossed her fingers.

‘Then it seems we have a problem,’ the soldier replied, throwing his thick-set body down from his horse and moving towards the bridge. ‘Prince Edward rides not far behind me and expects us, as his outriders, to clear the way for him. He’s in a hurry, Sister, and does not like to be held up.’

Standing on the cart, Alinor shrugged her shoulders, her arms spread wide, palms upturned. ‘What can I do?’ she replied. ‘I cannot move the cart by myself...’

‘Then we’ll have to help you.’ The soldier strutted boldly towards her. ‘First, we need to lighten the load.’