Читать книгу Hostage Bride - Anne Herries, Anne Herries - Страница 7

In the year of our Lord 1193

‘Messalina! God help me …’ Raphael awoke from the nightmare, his body dripping with perspiration. Putting out his hand, he discovered that the bed beside him was empty and cold. He had been dreaming of his late wife, of the terrible day a few months ago when he’d discovered that she was dead, lost to him for all time. ‘Forgive me. I should have been there. I should have protected you, my dear one.’

He moaned as the agony swept over him. His beautiful, young and lovely wife was dead and it was his fault. She’d begged him not to leave her that fateful night, but he had unwound her soft white arms from about his neck and told her he must go.

‘This is war, Messalina. I have been summoned by King Richard to a meeting and must obey his orders.

Things do not go as well as Richard would have liked and we may have to leave the Holy Land without gaining all we came for.’

‘Leave? You speak of leaving, of returning to your own land?’ Messalina’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Will you leave without me?’

‘You are my wife. When I return to England you will come with me.’

‘What of my father? How can I leave him here alone to face his last years without his daughter?’

‘I shall speak to your father tomorrow when I know more of the King’s plans,’ he’d promised—but in the morning both his wife and her father were dead, murdered by renegade Saracens.

His guilt lay heavy on his conscience for he knew that he need not have attended the meeting but had gone because he wanted to spend a little time with the knights who were his friends that night. Messalina was beautiful and he had been fond of her, like a man might be fond of a spaniel puppy, but she had clung to him and wept, and soon after wedding her he had realised that he did not love her as he ought.

He was not sure why he’d wed her, except that her father had offered her to him, and her shy smile had been appealing to a young man flushed with success from fighting a holy war. He had rescued both her and her father from ruffians who had sought to rob the wealthy merchant, and their gratitude had been flattering. Jacob had begged him to give them his protection and take his daughter and her fortune as his reward. He had wanted to protect both Messalina and her father and now felt that he had betrayed them. Yet it was more than that. Perhaps he was not capable of giving the deep love Messalina had needed, but he had genuinely cared for her, and now that she was dead his guilt haunted him day and night.

Leaving his bed, Raphael found cold water in the ewer and washed his face and body. His skin was bronzed by the sun of the Holy Land, his muscles honed by years of fighting and training in the art of warfare. The scars he’d received in battle had faded with time. He was drying himself when the door of his chamber opened and his servant Janquil entered.

‘Yes?’ he barked and then checked himself for he alone was to blame for the betrayal of Messalina. Janquil held no blame of any kind. ‘There is news?’

‘We have discovered the goldsmith you seek, my lord. It is but a day’s ride across the border into Normandy.’

‘Then we shall leave as soon as the others are ready. I must settle this business and then perhaps I shall have peace.’

The squire inclined his head, his dark eyes inscrutable. Raphael knew that the man was part-Saracen and part-Jew, a combination that had led to him being reviled and spat upon by the people of Acre. His mother’s people hated him for being the son of a Muslim and his father’s people thought him unworthy to be one of them. His parents had lived as outcasts in their village and when they had died of a virulent fever Janquil had sought work in Acre. For some years he’d worked as a house servant to a wealthy Jew but when Saladin took the city his master had been murdered.

When King Richard recaptured the city, Raphael had found the young man shivering and ill, near to starving. He had taken him to his quarters, nursed him and fed him, refusing to give him up as a prisoner. Janquil declined to leave after he recovered, saying that his life belonged to Raphael.

When Raphael and his friends had decided to make the long journey back to England, Janquil had asked to accompany him.

‘My country is very different to yours. You may wish you had stayed here, my friend.’

‘My life is yours. If I cannot serve you there is no purpose for me.’

Raphael put the memories to one side. He had become wealthy in the Holy Land, as had some of his friends, but there was also a fortune in Normandy lodged with a Jew his late father-in-law had trusted. Jacob would expect Raphael to claim it; they had been friends, and more than friends—almost as father and son. It was because Raphael had saved Jacob’s life that he had given him his most precious treasure—his daughter, Messalina.

Perhaps if he settled his business the nightmares would leave him to rest in peace.

Rosamunde was mending a tunic. It was her second best and she had torn it while out gathering herbs and berries for her cures. Her stitches were neat and she could not afford cloth to make a new one, because she would not ask her father for money. He had none to give her and would merely be distressed that she was in need.

Sir Randolph had almost beggared himself entertaining the King and his knights before they had gone on the third crusade. Since then he had contributed generously by sending young men from his manor to join Richard in the Holy Land, and he had recently given three-hundred gold talents towards paying the huge ransom demanded for Richard’s release.

When Sir Randolph had finally discovered that his debts were too deep to allow for a decent life for his daughter, he had decided that she must enter her cousin Angelina’s service. So Rosamunde had been sent to her uncle, Count Torrs, only to discover that he was leaving England for the Low Countries. The count had accepted his late sister’s daughter and Angelina had taken her into her service. Angelina was to stay with her uncle in Normandy until such time as her father returned from his travels, and so Rosamunde had travelled to France with her cousin.

At first, Rosamunde’s life had not been too bad, but as time passed Angelina seemed to dislike Rosamunde and gave her all the tedious tasks to perform. Rosamunde knew that her father had hoped she would make a life for herself in her kinswoman’s service, because there was little for her at home. She had no dowry to give to a husband and it was unlikely that anyone would offer for her without at least a small portion. Since coming to France, she had tried very hard to please her cousin, but Angelina was selfish and uncaring, and Rosamunde found it more and more difficult to accept her life. If she had not believed that her father would find her a burden to support, she would have returned home months ago.

Her only hope lay in King Richard’s return. If he were restored to his throne, he might find it in his heart to reward her father for past loyalty. A small pension would make all the difference and then perhaps Rosamunde could return to her home.

Sighing, she placed the tunic she’d been mending in her coffer and then went to look out of the narrow window. Since Rosamunde had no further work to occupy her, she might as well go in search of their hostess, Lady Saxenburg, and enquire if she could be of assistance to her.

About to leave on her errand, she was surprised when the door of her chamber opened and Angelina entered. Rosamunde felt a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck. It was not often that her cousin came to find Rosamunde; she was normally sent for by one of the other serving women.

‘Cousin, may I do something for you? I was looking for work since I have finished all the mending.’

‘You will be pleased to know we are to journey to England,’ Angelina said. ‘You should pack your things, Rosamunde, and then come to help me. I have set my other ladies to packing my things but only Margaret is to accompany us. Sir Thomas, who is a family friend, and his men will be our escorts.’

‘England?’ Rosamunde’s spirits lifted. ‘I am so glad, cousin. Perhaps I shall find time to visit my father. Do we go to your father’s home? Has his mission in the Low Countries been successful?’

‘We go on my father’s behalf,’ Angelina said. ‘It may be that you will have time to visit your father, but we shall speak of this when we reach England.’

‘I cannot thank you enough. Your uncle and aunt have made us welcome here in Normandy, but I prefer England. You must be glad to be going home too?’

‘I have no choice in the matter.’ Angelina’s gaze went over her. ‘That tunic is shabby, Rosamunde. Have you no others?’

‘This is the tunic I use for every day but I have two others.’

Angelina’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have grown shabbier; I had not noticed. I shall make you a gift of three tunics and a surcoat. You cannot attend me looking as you do, cousin. You will have time on the ship to make any adjustments you need.’

‘Cousin …’ Rosamunde’s cheeks stung. Angelina’s gift was generous but made in such a way that it humiliated her. ‘I … You are generous.’

Why was her cousin being so generous to her? Angelina had made it plain from the start that she did not like her cousin or wish to have her as one of her ladies—so why this sudden kindness? Something was not quite right.

‘I wish you to look well, cousin. We shall pass your home on our journey. You may visit your father, but remember your loyalty is to me. Perhaps if you serve me as I wish a marriage might be arranged for you. I dare say a knight might be found to wed you for fifty gold talents.’

‘I do not have even ten gold talents, cousin.’

‘No, but I may have.’ Angelina’s eyes glittered. ‘I cannot tell you just yet, but soon I shall ask a service of you and, if you please me, I may arrange something for you.’

‘What kind of a service, cousin?’

‘I cannot tell you yet—but it is important to me and my father.’

‘I am always willing to serve you and my uncle if I can, Angelina.’

Rosamunde could not help but be suspicious. Angelina always had a reason for what she did. If she was giving Rosamunde such a costly gift it must mean she wanted something from her in return.

‘Yes, perhaps. See to your packing. We leave within the hour.’

Rosamunde took her leave of the lord and lady of Saxenburg, thanking them for their hospitality, and then went up the twisting stair to her cousin’s chamber at the top of the tower. The door was open and as she paused she heard voices—Angelina and Sir Thomas. Without meaning to eavesdrop, she heard their words clearly.

‘What are we to do? My father is a prisoner of his enemy, Lord Mornay, and he demands one thousand gold pieces as a ransom to release him …’

‘It is an iniquitous sum. But the ransom must be paid or Mornay will not release his hostage. I have heard of this man, and I fear for Count Torrs if Mornay’s demands are not met.’

‘But you do not know it all,’ Angelina cried in a wailing tone. ‘He is not content with ruining my father by demanding this huge sum—he also wants me to take him the ransom myself.’

‘You cannot. I shall not allow it. You are promised to me, Angelina. Had your father not been captured in England we should have been wed before this,’ the man responded.

‘My uncle says that I must go to England and take the ransom, for if my father is not released his lands will be forfeit and he will have nothing left—and that means we cannot marry, Thomas, unless our plan works,’ Angelina said.

‘Your cousin suspects nothing?’

‘She is a fool and will do as I tell her,’ Angelina said scornfully. ‘But I still do not see how sending Rosamunde in my place will help us to recover my dowry.’

‘Listen and I shall explain once more …’

Shocked to the core at what she had heard, Rosamunde turned away, sick to the stomach and unwilling to hear more. Now she understood the reasons for the new gowns: her cousin meant to send her to this Lord Mornay in Angelina’s place.

Trembling, she ran back down to her own chamber.

What was she to do? She had no money of her own and there was no way that she could return to England without her cousin.

How could Angelina plan such a terrible thing? She had always known her cousin was selfish but this was beyond anything. Rosamunde was distressed and angry. She would not go to this man in her cousin’s place—but for the moment she had no choice but to hold her peace. Perhaps when she was in England she could go to her father and ask for his protection.

It was some ten minutes later that she followed her cousin down to the waiting horses. Angelina was to ride her own white palfrey, but Rosamunde had ridden pillion behind one of her uncle’s men-at-arms when they had come here and expected to ride that way once more. However, to her surprise, Sir Thomas led a lovely chestnut mare forward.

‘I believe you can ride, lady?’ ‘Yes, sir. Is this fine mare for my use?’ ‘Yes, if you can manage her.’ He smiled but something in his manner caused a shiver at Rosamunde’s nape. Had she not overheard their plan, she would have wondered why she was being so favoured. Now she understood why she was being given new clothes and a horse to ride. She must look the part of the count’s real daughter to fool the evil Lord Mornay.

Rosamunde longed to tell them that she knew what they planned, but her only chance was to reach England and her father. If he knew that she was being sacrificed to save her cousin from shame, he would surely not allow it. So, steeling herself not to flinch, she took Sir Thomas’s hand and allowed him to help her mount.

Rosamunde took the reins. Despite her anger, she felt a surge of pleasure at being able to ride independently. Not since her mother’s death had she had the joy of riding her own horse. Until that unhappy day her father had kept horses for both Rosamunde and her mother’s use, but afterwards he had sold them in an effort to stave off ruin.

Rosamunde took her place amongst Sir Thomas’s train. She saw that Angelina’s maid, Margaret, was riding pillion behind one of the grooms. The men-at-arms rode at the head and tail of the small procession, guarding their lord and his promised bride. Rosamunde followed just behind her cousin. It was a lovely warm afternoon and pleasant for riding. A few hours in the saddle would bring them to the coast where the ship would be waiting. How much she would have enjoyed the prospect, had she not understood what awaited her when they reached England.

Somehow she must find a way to get away from them once they reached England. Surely her father would be pleased to see her and would protect her?

Sir Raphael de Valmont sat his horse and looked out to sea. The ship that was to have taken him and his companions from France to England had been battered by a storm in mid-ocean and its mainmast was now being repaired. Unless he could find another vessel with space for five passengers, he might be forced to linger here another week.

‘The Southern Star sails with the morning tide,’ a voice said to his left and he turned to look at his friend Broderick. ‘But her captain says he has been asked to take a knight and his entourage to England and there is no room for us.’

‘Would he not let us find a corner of the deck on which to sit?’

‘He says that if we wait until the knight comes he will enquire how many there are in his party. Should there be room he might allow us to sleep on deck.’

Raphael nodded, his gaze brooding as he saw a party of horsemen arriving. His journey had become urgent ever since the news of his father’s illness had reached him as he had journeyed through France.

‘I believe the knight has arrived,’ Raphael said, his eyes narrowed, intent. ‘There are three ladies, a knight and ten men-at-arms, besides some five servants. The Southern Star is not large enough to take us all as well. We should search elsewhere.’

‘I’ve been told there is a cove just down the coast and two merchant ships are in port,’ Jonathan de Vere said as he rode up to them. ‘It will take us no more than thirty minutes to ride there. If we cannot find a berth for us all there, you must go on alone, Raphael.’

‘We vowed we would stay together until we reached England.’ Raphael’s mouth was unsmiling as he looked at his four friends: Sir Broderick, Sir Jonathan de Vere, Sir Michael Borthwick and Janquil. He had been some months on the journey from the Holy Land to Normandy, for it had now been a year since Messalina’s death. His friends had pledged to journey with him so that he might place his claim to recover from the goldsmith what should now have been his. In return, Raphael had promised that he would take them all into his service if he became rich.

They had eventually found the wealthy but elusive goldsmith. Markoff had at first been reluctant to part with the money and jewels lodged with him, but after verifying Raphael’s proof of marriage and the subsequent death of the whole family had admitted that he was the rightful owner. Raphael had considered making his home in Normandy, where he had purchased an estate, but then a message had reached him: his father was very ill and wished to see his son as soon as possible.

‘I have no intention of leaving you behind, my friends,’ Raphael continued. ‘My father may even be dead for all I know. The messenger told me that he had been searching for us for several weeks.’

‘Your father may have yet recovered. Tis a pity the ship did not wait here for you as was promised.’

‘The captain returned to England with a cargo. No doubt he intended to meet us here on time in the Broken Vows but the weather was against him.’

‘Shall we ride in search of these other ships?’

‘I shall speak to Captain Middleton and advise him of our intention.’ Raphael dismounted, giving the reins of his horse to his squire. ‘Wait here, Janquil. I shall not be long.’

Approaching the captain of the Broken Vows, Raphael told him of his intention to seek a berth elsewhere.

‘I shall be ready to sail in two days, sir, once the mainmast is mended,’ the captain said. ‘If you do not return before then, I shall seek another cargo and sail for England.’

‘Yes, you should do so. We shall return in good time if we fail to find berths elsewhere.’

Raphael turned away, intending to rejoin his friends. As he did so, he saw that the ladies had dismounted and were waiting to go aboard their ship. One of them was very beautiful with golden hair and a proud bearing; one was clearly a serving woman, but the other was less easy to place. She was very lovely but in a quieter way, her hair hanging down her back in a thick plait and the colour of burnished copper. Her eyes were green, her mouth soft and generous, and there was something about her that made him wonder if he’d seen her before. Her tunic was more modest than the proud lady’s and yet she had the bearing and look of nobility. Perhaps she was a relation rather than a serving woman.

The knight’s party was moving towards the ship as Raphael left the water’s edge. Just as they were about to pass one another, the woman with red hair seemed to stumble. Instinctively, Raphael reached out his hand to steady her.

‘I caught my heel.’ Her cheeks were flushed as she looked down at her boot, the heel of which had wrenched from its socket and was hanging loose. ‘Forgive me, sir.’

‘It was nothing. That boot will need mending,’ he commented.

‘Yes, I should have worn my others …’ She glanced up, her eyes widening, as if shocked. For a moment she seemed to hesitate and he thought there was a look of appeal in her eyes, but then her gaze dropped. ‘Excuse me, I must join my friends.’

‘Yes, of course—as must I.’

She moved away towards the ship but Raphael stood where he was, staring after her as she boarded the ship.

She seemed to become aware of him staring at her and for a moment she turned towards him. Their eyes met and another delicate flush touched her cheeks but she did not immediately glance away. Raphael felt a stirring of interest; he crushed it immediately. She was not a whore to be taken to his bed and dismissed the next morning, and he would never allow himself to care again.

As memories of his dead wife stirred, his expression hardened and he averted his gaze. The woman was lovely but she could never be anything to him. The memory of that night when he’d found the family home burned to the ground and his wife’s body lying in the yard was so strong and so sharp that he actually felt a stabbing pain in his chest.

Raphael realised that he had been staring at the English knight’s party without really seeing them. The women were being taken belowdecks now. Raphael felt a sudden sense of loss. He did not even know her name—the woman with the plait—yet it could not matter. They would never meet again. As her turn came to go below, she looked back and he sensed that she was searching for him. For a brief moment a smile touched her mouth, almost as if she knew him. Once again he felt that she wanted to speak to him, perhaps to ask for help, then her companion spoke to her and she walked onto the ship and was lost to his view.

Raphael crushed the urge to go after her, sweep her up and carry her off with him. For a moment he had seen something in her that he’d believed long forgotten, the spirit and joy he’d felt when he had first set out for the Crusades. No, that was ridiculous. She was nothing to him and never could be. He had built up a barrier, shutting out the pain of grief and loss. To allow softer feelings in would be to relive the pain that had almost destroyed him.

As he remounted his horse, Raphael put the red-haired woman from his mind. She was lovely, but he would not seek beauty or sweetness again. If he married for a second time it would be purely to get himself an heir.

‘What are you thinking of?’ Angelina’s sharp voice cut into Rosamunde’s thoughts. ‘I was speaking to you, cousin. Why did you not answer me?’

‘Forgive me. I did not hear you, cousin. What was it you wished me to do for you?’

‘I have a headache,’ Angelina said. ‘There must be something in my baggage to ease it. You are skilled with herbs—pray attend to it this instant.’

‘Yes, cousin,’ Rosamunde said. ‘I am sorry that you are feeling unwell. I shall make a soothing drink for you at once.’

Leaving her cousin to harangue her maid, Rosamunde went to find the herbs and beg some water from the ship’s quartermaster. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had not heard Angelina speaking to her. The knight who had saved her from a tumble and then had stared at her—surely it could not be Raphael?

No, she was letting her imagination run away with her. The youth she’d remembered all these years had had such a merry smile, but this man looked harsh—and weighed down with sorrow.

She had been tempted to beg for his help but then, as she had seen him frown, had known she must be mistaken. He could not be the young knight she had met so many years before at her father’s castle. And even if he was, he had not known her. True, he had stared at her, but even when he had touched her there had been no recognition in his eyes.

This knight was a stranger and she had not dared to approach him for help. She must simply wait for her chance to slip away to her father’s house.