Читать книгу A Midsummer Knight's Kiss - Elisabeth Hobbes - Страница 11

Her name was Mary Scarbrick and he loved her more than life itself. Robbie Danby knew with absolute certainty she was the woman he wanted to marry. She had hair so blond it was almost white and eyes the colour of his mother’s sapphire rings. True, he had only known her a month, but it had been a month filled with the greatest passions and despair he had ever experienced.

Riding towards York in the retinue of his master, Sir John Wallingdon, Robbie passed the time in two ways: he searched as he always did for a hint of the father whose unknown identity plagued him whenever he was in the presence of noblemen and knights, and he dreamed of Mary. There was plenty of time to do both as the procession of entourages all converging on the road to the city stretched seemingly for miles and was making slow progress.

Mary was among them somewhere, though Robbie had lost track of which covered litter she was travelling in. The ladies seemed to move from one to another as they kept each other company. As lady-in-waiting to Lady Isobel, Sir John Wallingdon’s wife, Mary would follow her mistress wherever that woman desired her to go.

Robbie sighed, thinking of the curve of Mary’s lips, the tilt of her nose, the smooth whiteness of her cheeks. No woman in the country could come close to her perfection. He would do great deeds in her honour. He would write poetry that would cause the hardest heart to weep. He would dedicate his life to her happiness if she would let him.

All he had to do was be able to speak to her without his throat seizing and his tongue becoming lead.

As a squire in the service of an elderly knight of middling wealth he had little to recommend him, but one day Robbie would be a knight, Sir Robert. With the expectation of one day inheriting the title of Lord Danby, Baron of Danby and Westerdale, he would be a much more attractive prospect to a young woman.

His stomach squirmed as it always did whenever the matter of inheritance occurred to him. He had kept The Great Secret buried within him, but never a day went by that he was not conscious of the deception he was party to, simply by living under the name he bore. His conscience would not permit him to deceive a wife over his origins.

With the prospect of Mary in his future, he was more determined to win his knighthood on his own merit. Robbie pictured himself taking Mary back to Wharram Danby, his childhood home. His mother would naturally love her as much as Robbie did himself. Even old Lady Stick would have to unbend when introduced to someone of such elegance, despite her dislike of Robbie. His twin sisters would fall over themselves to gain her notice while his cousins would look on in envy at the woman Robbie had won.

Most of his cousins, at least. Robbie slowed his horse a little, dropping back to the middle of the cavalcade as he pondered what his cousin Rowenna would make of his intended bride. He couldn’t imagine the meeting between the elegant Mary and spirited Rowenna, though they were similar in age. He would have to make time to travel to Ravenscrag and visit his cousin now he was home in Yorkshire. It had been abundantly clear in each of the notes she sent along with letters from Robbie’s family that she was desperate to visit the city more frequently than her father allowed.

‘What’s wrong, Danby? Forgetting how to ride? Are you going to travel to York at walking pace?’

A mocking voice pulled Robbie back from his reverie. He ground his teeth and looked into the eyes of the squire who had come alongside him. Cecil Hugone had been Robbie’s rival and friend—he was never sure which—since they had joined the same household within six months of each other as untrained pages and become squires together. Hours of work under the hard eye of their master had gradually changed both boys from scrawny youths into well-built young men, but while Robbie was tall and leaner than he would have liked to be, Cecil was thickset and squat.

Robbie took a deep breath to steady his voice. ‘Just thought I’d l-let you have a chance to ride in front without having to half kill L-Lightning to keep up with me.’

Cecil pursed his lips and Robbie knew his well-aimed arrow had found the intended target. Cecil never liked reminding he was not the best at everything.

‘We both know my Lightning could beat your Beyard without you needing to draw back. You were thinking of a woman, weren’t you, and I’ll wager I know which one.’

Robbie couldn’t prevent the blush rising to his cheeks. He wished he had grown a fuller beard to conceal it rather than the close-trimmed dusting he wore.

‘You aim high for a poor Yorkshire squire,’ Cecil said with a lift of his eyebrows.

Of course Cecil knew which woman Robbie had given his heart to. High indeed. Sir John was childless and his niece was rumoured to be the beneficiary of his fortune. Whoever caught the heart of Mary Scarbrick would find himself set for life and every man in Sir John’s household, old or young, had been admiring the nobleman’s niece when she had left her convent a month ago to serve as attendant to Lady Isobel. Cecil was included in that number and Robbie was certain he was equally determined to win Mary’s hand. The thought that Cecil might win the woman Robbie loved drove him to despair at night.

With a full beard and corn-blond hair, Cecil drew admiring glances from every quarter. He was the third son of a family who had first come to England from France with Edward Longshanks’s second wife. He was charming, handsome, good-humoured—and Robbie didn’t trust him not to put his own interests first any more than he would trust a fox in a henhouse.

Roger, now Lord Danby, could trace his line back for three generations of nobility, but as for Robbie himself…

He furrowed his brow. The deception he was party to was a weight on his mind, as was the fact he had no idea who his true father was. Despite the letters Robbie had written requesting, demanding and cajoling, his parents had refused to name the man beyond saying he was of noble birth. By hoping to win Mary as a wife, Robbie aimed considerably higher than even Cecil suspected.

Cecil laughed, mistaking Robbie’s discomfiture to do with their conversation. He threw his head back in a careless manner that Robbie knew for certain he practised when he thought no one as watching.

‘That’s it! You can’t sit straight in the saddle because you’re worried you’ll snap your swollen prick in half!’

Robbie winced inwardly at Cecil’s crudity. His intentions towards Mary were pure and Robbie himself was chaste. He yearned to marry her, not dally with her, then move on to another conquest as Cecil frequently did, if what he boasted about was true. Having said that, the affliction Cecil described did cause him trouble at times. That was only natural. There were nights when it felt like a knife was plunging into his groin and he was sorely tempted to seek out one of the maidservants of the household who had hinted that his particular attention would be received gladly. Sir John was elderly and presumably unaware of the behaviour of some of his household. For all Robbie knew, he was the only person not slipping from one bed to another after dark.

He loosened his cloak a little at the neck to allow the breeze to play about his throat. The weather in early June was warm and he could attribute some of the heat that flushed his body to that.

Robbie had learned over the years to speak through gestures to save his voice catching—a nod or wink, a shrug or a smile could make his meaning understood without having to endure the expression on the face of a listener who was no doubt branding him as feeble-minded. He had also discovered that enduring Cecil’s taunting with good humour was the quickest way of putting an end to it and that replying in kind was even better.

‘It’s true,’ he said with mock regret. ‘I am considering having a s-special s-saddle made that is much longer at the front in order to accommodate my inhumanly large member. How fortunate you are, that you have never had to fret over such matters!’

Cecil laughed coldly and punched Robbie on the arm. ‘A sting and a good one! So, tell me—what were you thinking about the fair Mary?’ He leaned closer in his saddle and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘How she’d be to kiss? What it would be like to bury your head between those tender breasts—or those supple thighs?’

‘None of those!’ Robbie said.

Cecil smirked. ‘Something more dissolute than that, even! Between her rounded—’

‘Guard your tongue if you w-wish to keep my friendship!’ Robbie growled. He sat upright in the saddle and let his hand drop to the sword at his belt.

Cecil eyed the sword and the hand tightening on the grip.

‘My apologies.’

Robbie took hold of the reins again, his temper, which was always slow to flare, subsiding.

‘If you really m-must know, I was w-wondering how M-Mary would greet my cousin Rowenna.’

‘A cousin! Is she fair?’

Robbie had last met Rowenna on a brief visit to York two years after he had left Wharram Danby to join Sir John’s household. His memory was of a thirteen-year-old, still far too ungainly and unladylike in her mannerisms and interests, but who was showing signs of becoming a comely woman. Dark, unruly curls came to mind, along with a plump form and a determined expression.

He enjoyed a private moment of humour as he considered the likely outcome if he introduced Cecil to Rowenna, remembering the many times she had trounced him at games and scorched him with her tongue, but this ended abruptly as he thought of the games Cecil might introduce her to. He felt a curious prickle at the base of his neck, as though someone had blown on his neck with ice-cold breath. The idea of Cecil showing interest in Rowenna was not something he wanted to encourage. He shrugged in an offhand manner.

‘She may be fair. I have not seen her for five years. She writes to me from time to time and tells me of home.’

Cecil wrinkled his nose. ‘A writer. I suppose she reads also and is grey-complexioned and furrowed of brow from the effect of concentrating.’

‘Possibly. I don’t think she is too serious. She used to get us both into trouble. There was one time she made me drive the sow into the beck and…’

He tailed off. Cecil was losing interest already, Robbie noted with some relief. Women were made for dancing and wit and seduction in Cecil’s world. A woman of a scholarly nature would bore him, though Rowenna’s descriptions of life in Yorkshire had always been a source of pleasure to Robbie and a link with home.

Now he thought of it, a studious woman of letters did not seem like the Rowenna he recalled from their youth, and little like the author of the letters, which were witty and exciting, painting a vivid picture of home and of a vibrant girl who seemed to delight in living, for all she grumbled about how quiet the village was. She had always seemed more alive than anyone Robbie knew and he loved her for it. Loved her for the way she could draw him out of his inclination to solitude—though more often than not into mischief and trouble—in a way no one else managed.

He’d sought her out eagerly on that last meeting, hoping to share his tales with his closest friend, but she’d been too busy drubbing some sense into her youngest brother to properly listen to Robbie’s tales of life in the nobleman’s house and his duties as a squire. Once he had done with his business in York he would make a point of visiting Ravenscrag and seeing Rowenna in person.

‘Come on, Rob, let’s not idle here in the middle of the party,’ Cecil urged. ‘It’s hard enough we are journeying north when there is fighting to be done in the south without having to travel at the pace of a grandmother walking to market. Let’s work up some sweat on these beasts.’

Robbie glanced back over his shoulder, as if he would see evidence of the unrest that had recently arisen in response to the newly introduced Poll Tax. Thanks to Sir John’s age and preference for dwelling at home, they had missed most of the riots that had supposedly taken place in the south of England.

‘The last to the bridge pays for the wine tonight!’ Cecil said.

He cracked the reins with a cry and cantered away. Robbie could afford to give Cecil a head start. He was the better rider and had more affinity with horses than Cecil did. He always had loved them since the time when his stepfather had put him astride his great destrier despite his mother’s protests. Robbie took his time to scratch Beyard in the soft spot behind the bridle before he gathered the reins. The bay rouncy tossed his head and snorted, eager to let loose and put the ground beneath his hooves.

Robbie’s spirits rose once again as he recalled that a tournament was planned for the assembled nobility once they arrived in York. He would take part in the bohort—the games for squires. He knew, without feeling the sin of pride, that he was a far better archer and swordsman than Cecil and that performing well was sure to win Mary’s notice.

He clicked his tongue, urged Beyard into a canter and chased after Cecil. He reached the bridge first, overtaking Cecil and Lightning with ease.

Cecil bought the wine as promised and not too grudgingly. They sat in the noisy inn that evening, sharing it companionably and joining in the arguments regarding the rebellions, some knights sympathetic to their cause and others outraged that common men might rise up against the King. Robbie drank slowly and listened with interest as both sides made strong cases, but before long he found the heat and noise too great and his thoughts drifted once again to the matter he had been thinking of before Cecil’s interruption on the journey.

Mary and Rowenna. That was it. They would love each other, of course. How could they not, when he loved them both so deeply?

York was much as Robbie remembered it from his last visit. After the small market town near Sir John’s manor house, the narrow streets felt oppressive and the buildings imposing. As they rode through the streets, Cecil once more came alongside. He gestured to the building site where a new Guild Hall was being constructed. It would eventually replace the current Common Hall, but would not be ready in time for the feasts and banquets that were to take place over the next month.

‘I’ve never been to York before. Are the women worth spending money on? You’ll have to try find me an alehouse where we won’t catch more fleas or the pox.’

Robbie grimaced at Cecil’s condescending attitude. He knew the streets well enough and his mother had been professionally scathing enough about other brewers she had encountered for him to deduce where he would find decent ale.

‘I can take you to the best alehouses, but I don’t know many women of the sort you’d be interested in,’ he said. ‘I was a boy when I was last here! The only woman I know is my Aunt Joanna and she’d have your eye out with her adze if you tried your sweet tongue on her!’

Cecil laughed and slung an arm about Robbie’s shoulder. ‘Then we’ll have to discover the delights together, won’t we! Not tonight, however. I’m too weary after the early start and for once have a craving for my bed with no company in it.’

They travelled at a walking pace through the city to the bank of the smaller of York’s two rivers. The inn was nestled into the walls, close enough to allow easy access to the tournament grounds and festivities that would accompany the summer pageant, yet far enough away from the stench of the city and the early-morning cries of street hawkers selling their wares.

Robbie settled into his quarters in the inn that had been commandeered by Sir John’s steward for the household. He was sharing a room with Cecil, two pages and four of the menservants. He would have preferred more space and privacy than the cramped attic room of eight men would allow.

‘I still would have preferred the camp with the other knights,’ Cecil grumbled. ‘Don’t you wish sometimes that Sir John was young enough to compete and had the inclination?’

Robbie made vague noises of agreement. He was fond of his elderly master, who had long since retired from active service to the King. The squires and servants had been dismayed to discover they would be quartered in an inn rather than the tents beside the ground itself. As Robbie inspected the straw mattress that was to be his bed for the month for obvious fleas, he had to admire the steward’s choice. The room was clean, the straw likewise. Robbie unlocked the small chest where he kept his personal effects and checked his savings. Rowenna’s ribbon, faded with age, was nestled in a corner. Robbie ran his fingers over it, remembering the night she had given it to him.

The night he had learned of his true birth. Even now the bitterness of Roger’s betrayal and his blundering attempt to act as if the secret was of little consequence made Robbie’s stomach lurch and fill with acid. Since they had parted that night with Robbie furious and Roger refusing to comprehend why, Robbie had seen Roger only once. That had been Roger’s brief visit to Wallingdon four years previously, where they had spoken stiffly and publicly, aware of Sir John’s presence and neither mentioning their argument. He would have to visit Wharram and see Roger at some point, but the idea filled him with anxiety and could wait.

He made his way downstairs and busied himself unpacking and polishing the armour Sir John no longer wore, until he was summoned to the main room of the inn, where the household would eat. He took his place at the table. His mind was only half on the prayers that Sir John intoned before they ate and half on when he might catch a glimpse of Mary. Unfortunately the litter bearing Sir John’s wife and her attendants had travelled at a slower pace and would not arrive until the following day. Even when it did, the women would be eating with Sir John in the small chamber that had been set aside for their private use.

Robbie ate with enthusiasm, scooping up barley-thickened pork stew, and listened to the other men trading insults and jokes. Their language was coarse and their wit quick. Even without the affliction that caused his words to become trapped behind his tongue he did not have much to add. The meal was drawing to an end and the household beginning to drift away on private pursuits. The segregation between the male and female members of the household relaxed, someone struck up a tune on a pipe and Robbie sat back, contented to watch others conversing. He began composing a verse to Mary in his head, wondering if he had the courage to commit it to ink and try passing it to her. Perhaps before he fell asleep he would write it down. It was only doggerel, but he knew Mary had simple tastes and was a poor reader. He hoped the effort—and brevity—would gain him some standing.

Before long, however, he tired of the heat and bustle and allowed Cecil to persuade him to join a game of jacks in their attic room. As they were halfway to the staircase, a rapid and insistent knocking on the door to the street sounded throughout the room. The innkeeper hurried to open it.

‘We’re full. No rooms to spare.’

‘I don’t need a room,’ came the reply. ‘Is there a Master Danby here?’

Robbie stopped, surprised to hear his name spoken and in a female voice. He could make out the form of a cloaked figure in the doorway, partially masked by the innkeeper. Cecil, who was three steps ahead of him, grinned and whistled.

‘You’ve lost no time in finding yourself a diversion for the night! I thought you didn’t know where to find women and you’ve called for one already.’ He thrust his crotch out and made an obscene gesture with his fist.

‘I didn’t call for a w-woman. There m-must be a m-mistake.’ Robbie glared at Cecil in outrage as humiliation caused his cheeks to burn.

He gestured fiercely to Cecil to go on up the stairs, then walked back down, his curiosity piqued. He crossed to the doorway where the woman stood. She was clad in a deep blue cloak of light wool with the voluminous hood pulled over her face, obscuring her identity. Her head was downcast and her hands folded neatly in front of her.

‘Who w-wants me at this hour?’ he asked. ‘I’m M-Master Danby.’

The woman drew her hood down to reveal neat black curls caught beneath a simple white cap. She raised her head and her dark-lashed eyes travelled upward and met Robbie’s. They widened briefly and her face broke into a beaming smile, small dimples appearing in each cheek.

‘Of course you are Master Danby,’ she said. ‘Don’t you recognise me? I’m Rowenna.’

‘D-Dumpling?’

Robbie couldn’t help himself. The old name he used to call her slipped out amid the words that caught in his throat. With her arched brows, straight nose and high cheekbones she looked so unlike the round-faced Rowenna he had nestled in his memory and even further from the grey-pallored mouse Cecil had described. He was not even sure she was who she claimed to be.

This woman was stunningly beautiful.

She also looked furious at being reminded of the childhood name. Her eyes glinted. Her smile froze. Vanished completely. The smooth forehead ruffled into a familiar scowl.

Robbie knew then, in no uncertain terms, this was his childhood friend. He prepared himself for a smack on the arm and began to blurt out apologies, but Rowenna gave an imperious wave of her hand to silence him and her smile returned much quicker than Robbie was expecting. She lifted her chin and set her shoulders back, all sign of displeasure gone from her expression, which was tinged now with aloofness. The mannerism reminded Robbie of his grandmother.

‘I had hoped your years away would have taught you how to speak to a lady,’ she said.

Her voice sounded oddly dignified, coming from the girl who used to bellow in his face when they argued.

‘I’m sorry! I w-was just s-s-s—’

‘Surprised to see me?’ Rowenna finished for him. Robbie stiffened instinctively, his eyes narrowing, and her expression became one of anguish. She put one hand to cover her lips, which Robbie noticed had become fuller and redder over the years, and placed the other on his arm in entreaty.

‘Oh, Robbie, I’m sorry!’ she gasped. ‘I know you hate people finishing your speech. Forgive me!’

Her fingers slid slowly down his sleeve, coming to rest on his bare wrist. Her fingers were warm against his flesh. He was acutely aware of how the hairs on his arm stood on end at this unexpected contact. He shook his head, smiling to show she had not offended him, though inside he writhed with shame that he could not even greet his old friend with ease.

‘I think we have both offended each other adequately so the s-score is s-settled.’ He managed to spit out his words without too much faltering and was touched to see Rowenna waited patiently for him to finish, watching him with bright eyes that called to mind an inquisitive blackbird watching a worm. She inclined her head gracefully to one side, displaying an elegantly curved neck that made Robbie think of fresh cream.

‘I agree. Greet me properly, then, Cousin Robbie,’ she said.

And waited.

Fingers of fire raced over Robbie’s body. Clearly she expected him to take the lead and set the tone of their reunion, but he had no idea where to start, being so unprepared for this moment. He leaned forward instinctively to embrace her and show how glad he was to see her again, but drew back as his heart gave a violent throb. Taking her in his arms after so long apart felt too intimate. A kiss on her cheek would be acceptable, though this led to the thought of kissing her lips, sending shivers racing over his skin in the most alarming fashion.

He settled for taking her hand and lifting it to his lips, combined with a quick bow. She curtsied gracefully.

Robbie became conscious that they were standing in full view of those members of Sir John’s household who had not departed. Cecil’s assumption that the unexpected visitor was a whore came to mind.

‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘I want you to come for supper tonight. Father was going to ask you tomorrow, but I begged him to ask for you tonight. You will come, won’t you?’

‘Tonight?’ She had clearly lost none of her impulsiveness in the years they had been apart. He had other plans, but they had gone clean out of his head in the presence of Rowenna. He pursed his lips doubtfully.

‘I shall have to ask permission from Sir John. The hour is late.’

‘But will you come if he allows it?’

She didn’t wait for his answer before continuing, ‘Let me ask him, I’m sure he would not refuse the petition of a lady. Where is he to be found?’

Robbie glanced to the large recess where Sir John’s private table was veiled by a thick curtain. Following his eyes, Rowenna walked purposefully through the room towards the alcove, her heavy cloak swaying from side to side. Robbie half expected her to pull the curtain back and demand entry in the direct manner she had demonstrated as a child. Robbie strode to Rowenna in consternation and caught her by the arm. She stopped, cocked her head at him and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

Robbie’s lord and master was a kind man. Robbie had no complaints about the treatment he had received in the many years he had been in Sir John’s service. He could be stern, however, and had very definite and fixed views on how a woman should conduct herself.

‘I’ll speak with him,’ Robbie said firmly. ‘You w-wait here.’

He slipped between the curtains, clenching his jaw in exasperation at Rowenna’s assumption he had no plans of his own. He made his apologies for the intrusion and explained to Sir John that his cousin wished to address him. The old man listened, then gave a brief smile.

‘Your cousin? Bring her in, then, Master Danby. I should be happy to speak a few words to her as she has come so far at such a time.’

He settled himself upright in the high-backed chair while Robbie slipped out to beckon Rowenna.

‘He will see you. Be polite,’ he cautioned.

Rowenna gave him a withering look in response to his warning and declined to answer. She adjusted the ribbons on her cloak, which had come slightly askew, folded her hands neatly and followed behind Robbie, head bowed submissively.

‘M-may I have the honour to present my cousin Rowenna Danby, my lord?’

Sir John’s expression when displeased had been known to reduce a clumsy kitchen skivvy to tears from across the Great Hall. He fixed Rowenna with such a gaze, his gimlet eyes examining her from head to foot.

‘I believe you wish to speak to me regarding my squire.’

Like Robbie, Rowenna had grown up under the eye of Lady Danby and such attempts to intimidate her were sure to fail. He only hoped she would not speak as forthrightly as she used to when addressing Lady Danby—something that had landed her in trouble on many occasions.

To his relief—and slight surprise—Rowenna averted her gaze modestly and smoothly dropped into a deep curtsy with surprising elegance. She remained silent. Robbie glanced sideways and saw Sir John’s expression soften, filling with approval. He motioned Rowenna to rise with a quick shake of his hand.

‘I crave your pardon for the lateness of my visit, but my family are all eager to have my cousin with us again. It has been many years since we last saw him.’ She looked at Robbie and her smile deepened, causing the dimples to return. ‘Far too many years.’

Robbie smiled in return, his eyes meeting her dark-lashed pair. Surely they had not been that long when he had last seen her? He took her hand, fondness rushing through him.

‘Are you here to ask my permission to marry?’ Sir John asked.

‘To marry!’ Robbie exclaimed. A peal of laughter burst from Rowenna as if such a preposterous idea was the most amusing thing she had ever heard. She clasped her hand across her lips.

‘I… No… I merely wish to claim him for a night… We… For an evening!’

Rowenna stumbled over her words as though her tongue was as awkward and disobedient as Robbie’s and she had begun to blush as red as Sir John’s wine. Her eyes flickered to Robbie’s and widened. The two of them could once again have been children awaiting judgement from their parents. Robbie bit back a smile.

‘I have no intention of marrying yet,’ Rowenna added.

‘Good. A squire is in no position to wed.’ Sir John nodded at Robbie. ‘I would advise a man to have made a name for himself before he takes a wife.’

Robbie’s scalp prickled as he wondered if Sir John suspected his hopes towards Mary. Sir John addressed Rowenna once more.

‘Young woman, where is your attendant? You have brought a chaperone, I assume?’

Rowenna gazed on him with clear eyes. ‘Father planned to send the servant to ask, but I decided I would come instead.’

Sir John was stone-faced for what felt like a year. Then he chuckled. ‘Neatly ensuring I am in no position to make you return home unescorted. Very well. Robbie, you have my leave for a short while. Go visit your kin, but be warned, I expect you attending to your duties as usual tomorrow morning. If you hope for any success tomorrow, you will not be late to bed.’

Robbie wondered whether his lord meant success in the bohort—the games for squires to take part in—or with Mary. He was still pondering that when he bowed and took Rowenna’s arm to escort her from the alcove. He left her waiting in the outer room while he rushed two steps at a time to the bedroom and gathered his cloak and money scrip. Cecil and his companions were engrossed in their game of jacks and showed only mild interest in what he was doing. His inability to answer concisely worked in his favour as they returned to their game before he could explain.

He paused at the turn of the stairs and walked the bottom half slowly to give himself time to look at Rowenna. As a child she would have been scuffing her feet or twisting her ribbons into knots, but now she stood perfectly still, hands folded placidly and face serene as a marble statue in a cathedral. Only her eyes gave life to her, darting around the room and taking in everything that was happening.

She slipped her hand on to the arm he held out and they left the inn. A boy was sitting against the wall to the side of the door, his knees drawn up and his feet drumming a repetitive beat on the stones. He had a small brown puppy on a leash that began barking as soon as it spotted Rowenna, racing round in circles in a tangle of long hair.

‘Get up out of the mud, lazy-legs,’ Rowenna said cheerfully.

‘You brought him!’ the boy exclaimed, looking at Robbie in delight.

Before Robbie knew what was happening, the boy had hurled himself upright and barrelled into Robbie, flinging his arms about Robbie’s waist. Rowenna was smiling. Robbie raised his eyebrow.

‘You haven’t met my brother,’ she told him.

Robbie disentangled himself from the boy and held him back to examine him. The child bore the Danby black curls and had inherited his sister’s determined expression. This must be Ralf, the child Joanna had been carrying when Robbie had left Wharram.

‘I thought you said you had no escort,’ he said, narrowing his eyes at Rowenna.

‘A child is hardly a chaperone. Besides, if I had admitted he was here, your master might have sent me away empty-handed.’

She gave him a smile that radiated the innocence she had displayed to Sir John, but her eyes gleamed with a wickedness that made Robbie’s toes curl in a thrill of surprised delight. Before he could answer she drew up her hood and turned away.

‘Come on. Father will be worrying why we aren’t back. The city isn’t as safe as it used to be.’

She began walking swiftly ahead. Robbie threw his cloak over his shoulder, checked his sword was buckled securely at his side, Rowenna’s mention of safety setting his senses on edge. With Ralf clinging on to his arm and asking a dozen questions, he followed her into the city. It was only when he crossed in front of the passage that led to the stables that he remembered he had intended to write his poem to Mary. Just as in his childhood he had been swept up in Rowenna’s plans and had been as incapable of disobeying her as he would be the pull of the tide.