Читать книгу Christmas At The Tudor Court: The Queen's Christmas Summons / The Warrior's Winter Bride - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 15

Chapter Six

‘What are you looking for, my lady?’

Alys spun around, startled by the sound of a maidservant’s voice in the doorway of the stillroom. She was filling her baskets with the herbs she needed, along with clean linen bandages and some wine, and was so absorbed in her own thoughts she heard little beyond the empty chamber.

‘Some of the men are in need of healing poultices and tisanes after—after what happened last night,’ she said. She remembered all too well the terrible scene on the beach and swallowed her fear to try and smile.

She knew she was not the only one affected by what had happened. The maid’s eyes were red-rimmed, her apron askew. ‘Oh, my lady, ’twas terrible! Will there be more of them, do you think? Will they reach the castle?’

Alys saw a flashing image in her mind, a scene of mayhem as soldiers stormed through the corridors of Dunboyton, tearing her life apart. Nay—she would never let such a thing happen. ‘I’m sure Bingham’s men have moved on to seek new prey. There will be little here for them and we will soon be as quiet as usual.’

‘But the Spanish...’

‘The Armada is destroyed!’ Alys cried, thinking of those poor, starving wretches cut down on the beach. Of Juan, his beautiful eyes and his wounded body. ‘They could not hurt even a seagull now. We must go about our tasks as always. Is my father’s dinner ready?’

‘I don’t know, my lady.’

‘Well, go see about it, please. Here is some mint for the lamb stew. Perhaps that will tempt his appetite a bit. I must go see to the garden.’

Alys took up her basket and hurried out of the stillroom. She could tell that most of the servants were trying to go about their tasks as always, but there were still soldiers loitering in the gardens and the great room, and the air seemed heavy and oppressive. She went to fetch her parcel of clothes and linens, and made her way towards the garden, avoiding anyone’s gaze.

She caught a glimpse of her father in the great hall and despite her worries the sight of him made her pause. He sat slumped in his chair near the fire, his head resting on his hand, and he looked so tired. So—old, suddenly. She left her baskets near the door, out of sight, and made her way to his side.

‘Father?’ she said and at first she feared he didn’t hear her. He shook his head and slowly looked up at her. ‘Father, are you unwell?’

‘Nay, Alys my butterfly, I am well enough,’ he answered, his voice tired and weak.

‘Is your stomach aching again? I can mix you a tisane...’ She had become used to mixing the certain combination of herbs that sometimes soothed him, as he had been plagued with illness ever since her mother died.

‘It is no worse than usual.’ He gave a deep sigh and stared back into the fire. ‘I have grown useless, Alys. I could not even do anything to stop that wanton slaughter last night.’

Alys’s heart ached at his words. She knelt down beside his chair and pressed her hand to his trembling arm. ‘Oh, Father. They say Bingham carried a royal order from Fitzwilliam, you could not go against that.’

‘Royal order,’ he snorted. ‘Men like that follow no order but their own. Ransoms could have been made, perhaps, or valuable information obtained from those men. All for naught.’

Alys thought of Juan. Once he was recovered, what information could he give them? Perhaps if he could tell her father...

She shook her head. That had to be a secret for now, her secret, until Bingham’s men were truly gone and she had found out what she could from Juan herself. ‘Terrible things do happen in battle.’

‘That was no battle, it was a slaughter of starving men who were defeated weeks ago. Thank the stars your mother was not here to see such wickedness. And I pray that you will never see such again, either. That you never see true battle.’

‘That seems unlikely, Father. I am no warrior, am I?’ She kissed his cheek and made herself give him a bright smile. ‘I am sure Dunboyton will be as isolated as ever now that the ships have gone. I’ll finish my tasks and dine with you this evening. There is lamb stew and a new apple pie.’

Her father patted her hand, but she could tell he was far away from her again, staring into the fire as if he could see images in the flames no one else glimpsed. She wondered if he saw her mother there, her Spanish mother.

Alys quickly fetched her baskets and hurried out of the castle. Juan had been alone for hours now and she worried what she would find at the abbey. Perhaps he had become feverish, or mayhap wandered away and was captured. She knew she should not be so worried for a man she did not know, a man who could bring much danger on to her, but still she hurried her steps towards him.

It was still cold and windy, but the rain had gone. She avoided the beach. They said the villagers had pillaged what they could from the sailors’ bodies and from the cargo that had washed ashore from the ships, and the bodies were buried in the dunes. The English regiments had moved on along the coast, but she couldn’t bear to see the place where she had witnessed such horrors. If she could help Juan, even though he was only one man...

Well, it was all she could do for some atonement, something for her mother.

As she came over the top of the cliffs, the ruins of the abbey came into view. The spires still reached towards the slate-grey skies, even though their walls were crumbling, one tiny spot of beauty left out of ruin. The empty windows and old walkways seemed as empty as always.

What would she find when she went to search for Juan?

The door to the old dairy was closed and no smoke curled from the chimney. It looked as abandoned as the rest of the cloisters.

Alys slowly pushed the door open. She held her breath, listening for any sign of life, but there was not even a rustle of noise. ‘Holà...’ she called tentatively. Her words ended on a scream as her arm was suddenly grabbed and she was dragged into the room.

A hard, strong hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her words and her breath. Cold terror washed over her. She twisted frantically against her bonds, driving her elbow into her captor’s ribs. She must have inadvertently hit a wound, for she was suddenly free and her captor stumbled back a step.

Alys whirled around, and saw it was Juan who had grabbed her. His face was grey, streaked with sweat, and his eyes were filled with a wild glow, like an animal cornered. Anger replaced her fear. Had she not done all she could to help him, despite everything? How dare he frighten her so!

‘I am trying to help you, at great risk, and this is the thanks I get!’ she cried. She scooped up some of the tumbled linen that had fallen from her basket when she dropped it and tossed it at his head. She knew she should still be scared; she had seen men in the aftershocks of battle before, they didn’t always know where they were. And Juan was much larger and stronger than she was. But somehow, her fear was gone.

He caught the linen in one hand and the wild light in his eyes faded. A look of horror flashed across his face. ‘Forgive me, señorita. I didn’t realise it was you, I thought—it was most ungentlemanly. I...’ His face went very white and he sagged against the wall.

Alys remembered his wounded shoulder, all he had been through, and she felt terrible for shouting at him, deserved or not. She rushed to his side and took his arm. He felt much too warm, as if his fever had not abated. ‘Of course. I could have been one of Bingham’s soldiers, though I dare say they would have made much more noise. Here, sit down, you are feverish still. I’ll build up the fire.’

He went with her, though she sensed he went most reluctantly, trying to hold back, as if ashamed of his behaviour, his loss of control. ‘Why have you not summoned the soldiers yourself?’ he asked.

Alys shrugged, concentrating on stoking the fire. ‘I do not like Bingham and his barbaric methods. He is a brute, who does not follow the proper procedures for battle. He just enjoys a bloodbath.’ She sat back on her heels and watched as the flames caught and crackled, sending out their warmth into the cold, stone room. She nodded, as if she had decided on something. ‘And my mother...’

‘Ah, yes, you said she was Spanish,’ he said. ‘So was mine.’

She turned to look at him, wondering that there was someone else there like her, someone who might understand what it felt to be caught ever between two worlds. ‘And your father?’

His jaw tightened. ‘He was English.’

‘Is that why you were with the Armada? For your mother?’

He was silent for a long moment, until she was sure he would not answer her. He looked like a rock, a cave made of stone she could not penetrate. ‘I was there for many reasons. You would find my tale dull.’

Alys thought of his hidden packet of papers, that strange jumble of letters and symbols she had glimpsed for only an instant before he hid it again. She was sure the very last word to describe him would be dull. But she could tell he should not talk more today, the effort of holding his secrets had made him pale again and he shivered. She would have to discover more later.

Once the fire was blazing again, she gathered up her tumbled supplies and went to kneel beside him. He gave her a wary glance.

‘I brought you some proper blankets and pillows, not much like a real bed, but better than that old canvas,’ she said. ‘Also, a clean shirt, and some bandages and healing herbs from my stillroom. Oh, and wine and bread, a bit of cheese and smoked fish. You look as if you haven’t had a real meal in some time, so you must eat very slowly.’

He examined the supplies she laid out with a strange look on his face, almost a wonder, as if she had brought an array of gold and rubies. ‘Where did you get all of this?’

‘I told you, the herbs came from my stillroom and the food from the kitchen, of course. No one saw me gather it.’ She measured out a mixture of feverfew and rosemary, carefully crushing them together and mixing them into some wine.

‘You stole this? For me?’

Alys laughed. ‘Certainly not. They are mine to take, since my father is governor of the castle. Except for the shirt. I did take that from him, but I will sew him a new one.’

‘Then where am I, exactly?’

Alys glanced up from her herbs and saw a frown on his face. ‘Dunboyton Castle in Galway. Did you not know?’

He shook his head. ‘Our pilot died days ago and much of our navigational equipment was damaged. No one was well enough to steer, so we just—drifted. Until we followed another ship into a bay, trying to shelter from the gale.’

Alys tried to remember all the jumbled stories that had flown around when the ships were sighted. ‘Aye, they did say there were two that went down, but there seems no sign of the other.’

‘There were no survivors, then?’

Alys went back to her mixture, making a new one for the poultices. She did not want to tell him too much yet, not when he was still ill. ‘I don’t know. If there were, they weren’t brought to the castle. Here, let me see to your shoulder. The bandages will need changing. Drink this.’

Juan drew back, glaring suspiciously at her array of herbs. ‘What is that?’

‘Merely feverfew, some yarrow, a bit of valerian, things of that sort,’ she answered. ‘It will help the fever and aid your blood in healing itself. I will make you a tea of chamomile later, to help you sleep. It is not poison, I promise. Why would I go to so much trouble to bring you here if I was just going to poison you?’

He laughed, and it sounded as if he had not done so in a long time. It was like drawing back a shutter and letting the light and warmth in again. ‘A fine point, señorita.’

‘You’ll have to take off your shirt.’

To her amusement, his cheeks actually turned a bit red and he turned his back to strip off the torn, stained shirt. For a moment she could only stare, amazed, at the beauty of his sun-darkened skin lightly touched with the pink of those incongruous blushes. Her giggles faded when she saw the way he winced in pain at the movement and she hurried over to touch his arm.

‘Here, sit down, Juan, let me look at your shoulder,’ she said.

She could tell he was still wary, holding himself stiff under her touch, but he slowly sat down on the blankets she had arranged by the fire. He held his back very straight as she leaned closer to study the gash on his shoulder.

The wound was not as angrily red as it had been, but she saw she did need to remove the rest of the splinters and dress it with the poultice if it was not to poison his blood. She also realised he must have found the water cistern and bathed, for his gold-touched skin was clean and smooth to her touch, and he smelled of sweet rainwater with a hint of citrus.

He was really very, very handsome, with his sharply carved features, his strong jaw and blade-straight nose, and those sea-green eyes. His body, too, was tall and leanly muscled, like that of an ancient warrior.

Alys shook away the strange spell being close to him seemed to weave around her. She could not afford such distractions now. She quickly rinsed a rag in clean water and carefully dabbed at the dried blood that had seeped around his wound.

‘What is this place?’ he asked. ‘Part of the castle?’

‘Nay, it is the old abbey. It was abandoned long ago, in King Henry’s time, and most of it is in ruins. It was dark when we came here, I am sure you couldn’t see it well.’

‘An abbey?’

‘This was the old dairy and somehow it has survived with its roof intact. I think the shepherds use it sometimes, when they drive their flocks towards Galway City.’

‘How do you know about it?’

Alys carefully dabbed her paste of herbs on the cleaned wound. His shoulder tensed under her touch and his skin felt like steel under silk. Distracting again. ‘I came here with my mother when I was a child. The monks had large herb gardens and we would gather some of the remains, or we would sit on the old walls and she would tell me tales.’

‘Tales of Spain?’

Alys thought of those sunny spring days, with the light flooding through the empty windows and the scent of mint on the air. ‘Sometimes. She said it was always sunny and warm there, most unlike Ireland. Mostly fairy stories, or tales of old kings and warriors, though.’

‘Will she find you here?’

Alys bit her lip as she wound the bandage tighter. ‘Nay. She died many years ago.’

Juan reached up and gently touched her hand, making her skin turn warm at his touch. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It—it was a long time ago,’ Alys stammered, confused at the feelings his touch awoke. ‘Though I fear my father still mourns her greatly.’ She slid her hand away to tie off the bandage. ‘Some of the stories she did tell me were ghost tales. She loved those. I always wondered if the Spanish had such drama in their blood.’

‘Ghost tales?’

‘Of the monks who once lived here. On some nights, when the moon is bright, they go in procession, chanting through the old cloisters. Some of the maids say they have even seen lights up here, moving along the cliffs.’

‘Have you ever seen them?’

Alys shook her head as she finished her nursing ministrations. ‘Never. My mother said I was too practical to see the world beneath our own, that I was too concentrated on my everyday tasks.’

He smiled at her, and it was meltingly beautiful. ‘And are you? Practical, Alys?’

Alys smiled back. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. His smile looked like something she had been waiting to see all her life and she wanted to fall into it and be lost. ‘I suppose I am, though I don’t mind a pretty song or two when the jongleurs come to Dunboyton.’ She offered him the clean shirt. ‘Did the ghosts come to visit you last night?’

‘Not yet, but I have no fear of them. I grew up in my father’s house, which was also once an abbey, and there were ghosts aplenty there. Here cannot be much different.’

He tried to slip the shirt over his head, but he was still moving stiffly and the sleeve caught. Alys moved to help him and felt the soft brush of his hair, the warmth of his body against her. ‘Have you been to many places since you left your father’s house?’

He smiled up at her again, but now it was rueful. ‘Many lands indeed. The Low Countries, France, Portugal...’

‘I fear I have never left here. My father was sent here as governor when I was a child. Dunboyton is beautiful, but rather small, I fear, and my knowledge of the world must come from books and the stories of visitors.’

He looked into the fire as he tied the laces of the shirt, a wistful frown replacing his smile. ‘I would have liked a real home, I think.’

‘And I think I would have liked a bit of adventure.’ Alys took up the wine and food from the basket and held out the loaf of bread. ‘In exchange for my help, Señor Juan, I insist you tell me all about Lisbon and Paris. What they wear there, what they eat, their buildings and shops...’

Juan laughed. ‘So tales are your price, my rescuer? One story for every bite of cheese?’

‘If they are good stories, I may even bring you a pie or two. But you must still eat slowly and carefully. I don’t want my efforts to come to nothing if you become ill again.’

‘I am quite sure I will find my health quickly again, thanks to you.’ He peered at her curiously as he sliced off a bit of cheese and slid it past his sensual lips. ‘You are surely an angel.’

Alys turned away, flustered. ‘I am sure my household would disagree with you. They say I am too bossy.’ In fact, it would soon be time for her to oversee dinner. She poured out a measure of wine and mixed in a spoonful of valerian to help him rest. ‘Here, you should drink this. I have to go now and see to my father’s dinner, or I shall be missed. But I will be back later to see if you are well.’

‘And to claim your first story?’

Alys laughed. ‘And that. It had best be an amusing one.’

She gathered up her baskets and hurried out of the old dairy, making sure the door was firmly shut and no one watched her. It was quiet on the path along the cliffs that led back to Dunboyton, giving Alys too much time to think about Juan. About how shockingly handsome he was beneath the beard and sun-brown of his time at sea, like no one else she had ever seen in real life. He was like a hero or ancient warrior in a sonnet, all elegant, quiet strength. He spoke very well, too, his words polished and educated, his accent fine. She couldn’t help but wonder more about his past. Where had he really come from? What had driven him on to those ships? He held many, many secrets, she was sure of that.

She knew she should be frightened of him. Certainly she should tell her father about him immediately. But something, some part of a fairy instinct her mother had claimed she lacked, told her that his secrets were not evil ones. He was a complicated man, yes, but not a wicked one.

At least she hoped he was not, that her trust in him was not misplaced. And he had called her his angel, in a sweet, wondering tone she had never heard before. She liked him thinking of her in that way. The memory of it made her laugh and then blush when she thought of how warm and smooth his bare skin was when she touched it. Aye, she was in danger of being overtaken by her emotions, for the first time in her life, and she could not let that happen. She had to be very careful, indeed, and find out for sure what Juan’s true purpose was there. She prayed with all her might it was a good one. It looked as if her whole future depended on it.

* * *

When Alys was gone, the small room, which had felt so warm and welcoming while she was there, seemed to close around him. Yet he dared not go outside, not until he was strong enough to face any foe again.

John opened the door a crack and stared out into the night, and somehow its starlit beauty, its silence, made him recall too sharply the scenes of the past weeks. The bloody battles, the freezing, starving days on the ships, watching poor Peter—and so many other men—die. If not for Alys, he would be among them. He would be mouldering in a hastily dug grave on the beach and his quest to restore the Huntley name would be at a terrible end.

Aye, he owed her so very much. She declared she was not an angel, but he knew differently. When he had opened his eyes to see her face, to look into her dark eyes and hear her low, sweet, reassuring voice, it was like being raised into the bright light once more. He had a new chance at life, if he could make it safely to court, and he owed it all to her.

He thought of the way she took such care of his wounds, her cool, calm demeanour, her gentle smile. She had saved a man, a stranger, and taken care of him with no sign of fear. Such remarkable courage and kindness, such as he had never seen before in either woman or man. Aye, of course she was an angel.

He thought of foolish Peter and the letters he had written so fervently, even in his final days. John wondered if it was a woman Peter wrote to, a woman who had stolen his heart, who shared the cause that made a martyr of him. It would explain his worshipful expression, his adamant insistence that he would see the person he wrote to once more.

Aye—perhaps a woman had once helped Peter, as Alys had helped him. The thought gave him pause. He knew he could not lose his heart so fervently, or at all. His work was still incomplete. But he did want Alys to know how she had helped him. How she had changed him.

He reached for a small block of wood from the stack of fuel for the fireplace, and studied its angles and shape carefully. He had once spent long hours waiting for battle, or aboard ship, in carving, he was sure he could remember how to do it now. This piece of wood would work, and it would definitely help pass the time as he recovered his full strength and plotted his return to court.

It would also remind him of Alys in the long, quiet hours until then.