Читать книгу Knight's Move - Jennifer Landsbert - Страница 8

F or a moment the world was frozen as they stared at each other. Behind her, Hester could feel the stunned silence of William and the men.

‘My husband’s dead,’ she managed to say at last, her words falling like stones into the stillness of the courtyard.

‘Who told you that?’ he challenged, fixing her with his dark stare.

Hester hesitated, her eyes mesmerised by his face, scanning its contours for clues, searching for some resemblance between this dirty, scarred stranger and the handsome youth who had stood beside her ten years earlier, making his vows to the priest. ‘I—no one. I thought…’ she trailed off.

‘You hoped,’ he said, finishing her sentence for her. He tossed back his hair with a sardonic, humourless smile that shaped his lips but did not touch the rest of his face. ‘I’ve been away protecting the Holy Land from the Saracen and you’ve been wishing me dead.’

Hester tried to measure him with her eyes. Was he her husband? All those years ago she had spent only minutes in his presence, and even then, timid and bewildered, she had hardly dared to look her bridegroom in the face. He had seemed so tall, so fine, so grownup, but she had been only a small, frightened girl, newly orphaned, who had been passed from pillar to post for the sake of the fortune she had inherited.

The memories of those terrible days came storming back. The fever which had killed her parents within two days of each other. The arrival of the king’s men to wrench her away from everything she knew. The news that the king had accepted the Lord of Abbascombe’s offer to stake finances for the crusades in return for Lady Hester Rainald, whose fortune made her a fitting bride for his son, even though Hester was only twelve and his son, Guy, was twenty. The memories charged through her head until she thought it would explode.

‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’ Hester said out loud, her voice bold and challenging, hoping to break the spell of the past. Maybe he was just a chancer trying his luck, a vagabond who had happened to hear the story of the missing lord of Abbascombe. Perhaps he would have no proof at all.

‘Don’t you know your own husband, lady?’ leered one of the five cronies, who had gathered in the gloom behind the dark rider. ‘My God, you have been away a long time, Guy.’

The name shot through her. Guy. But, of course, his accomplice would call him that. It was just part of the plot. It proved nothing.

‘Prove that you’re Guy Beauvoisin,’ she demanded.

‘Prove it!’ he repeated, fixing her with a menacing glint. ‘I come back to my own home, my land, and you ask me to prove that I am Guy Beauvoisin. You take an awful lot upon yourself, my lady.’

‘I’ve had to,’ Hester snapped. ‘There’s been no one else to do it.’

He glared back at her. His eyes, full of anger, flashed at her like daggers and stirred another memory in Hester’s breast. Suddenly she was back ten years ago, standing in the hall, watching as her new husband confronted his father. Both men with their broad shoulders flung back and their eyes ablaze, the father heavier and a little shorter, the son fired by rage, rebellious indignation spilling from his lips as he cursed the marriage which had just been solemnised. ‘I’ve carried out your will to the letter, sire,’ he was saying. ‘I have married this pathetic, orphaned child. I have done what you required to save your precious Abbascombe from ruin. And now I consider myself free to do as I choose. I intend to leave with the crusade immediately. I will not remain here to continue this mockery of a marriage.’

The painful scene played itself in her memory. Hester tried to blot it out, attempting to concentrate all her attention on the here and now. She must keep her wits about her, watch this man’s every move in case he gave himself away as an impostor. He was hesitating now.

‘Go on,’ she prompted, pushing her advantage.

‘You’re serious?’ he questioned. ‘You really don’t recognise me?’ Hester shook her head. He sighed and Hester tried to read his thoughts, but his face was inscrutable. ‘I am Guy Beauvoisin,’ he began, ‘direct descendent of Guy the Harrier, who fought with William the Conqueror and was given Abbascombe for his services to the king.’

‘Anyone could have found that out,’ she scoffed, then fixed him with a challenging stare. ‘Continue, if you still wish to try.’

He took up the gauntlet. ‘You are the Lady Hester, only child of Sir Richard Rainald. You were a twelve-year-old orphan, a ward of the king, when my father chose you to be my wife.’

‘That is widely known. You’ve still proved nothing.’

‘You want something that only you and your husband could know?’ he asked, his voice carrying a hint of danger which made Hester clench her fists involuntarily, until she felt her fingernails grazing into the flesh of her hands.

‘Of course,’ she breathed, feigning insouciance, but feeling herself cornered. Her heart pounded with the rhythm of the doubts in her mind. Was he her husband? Don’t let it be him, she wished. Please let him be dead.

Suddenly he was advancing towards her, his long, muscular legs covering the ground in an instant. Hester shied back instinctively. The air between them seemed to crackle with his presence.

‘You want me to tell you?’ he demanded and the question sounded like a threat.

At that moment there was nothing she wanted more than to keep him at a distance, as far from her as possible. The memory of his closeness that afternoon sent those same shivers coursing up and down her spine. She searched her mind desperately for a way to avoid his proximity, but before she could find one, he was there at her side, his hand gripping her elbow so tightly it made her flinch, as he bent his lips to her ear. He was so close she felt again the tips of his bristles grazing her cheek as he rasped, ‘After our vows, when we were truly man and wife, I looked deep into your eyes and said, “Don’t look so scared, little girl, I shall never force you to fill the office of a wife. You may go back to your dolls.”’

A dart of pain shot through Hester at the memory of those words of rejection. Suddenly she was back ten years ago, that frightened girl, fighting back the tears when she realised that this new husband felt only contempt for her. It had been exactly as he said, the same words, the same voice. She pulled away from him and again found herself looking into those eyes. They were the same too, in spite of the way the scar pulled at his brow, in spite of the changes the years had wrought on the rest of his face. She had to admit to herself now that she recognised his eyes.

But she was no longer the terrified little girl whom he could buffet with his scorn. She was strong now, strong enough for the whole of Abbascombe, and she would not be bullied. Hester summoned up her strength and fixed him hard with her eyes. As she glared at him, she thought she detected some effort in his face as he returned her stare.

‘My lord,’ she said, curtsying low, her muddy skirts sweeping the cobbled floor of the courtyard. ‘You are welcome to Abbascombe. We have long awaited your return. Speak your will and it shall be done. Your humble wife asks your bidding.’ The words came out somehow, however unwilling she was to speak them.

There was a clamour all around her as the spectators, who had held their peace for so long, suddenly spoke all at once. Hester felt rather than heard their voices. All her attention was fixed on him, the so-called husband she had never expected to see again as long as she lived. He was back and she knew he was trouble.

As the villagers swarmed around him, eager for a good look at their fabled missing lord, greeting him with cheers and questions, Hester stepped back and took a long, hard look at him. Yes, she could see the resemblance now, even though he was smiling as he shook hands and returned good wishes. It was a broad, warm smile, taking the place of the scowls, fury and mockery which were the only expressions she had ever seen on his face until now.

Hester could not share in this joyful scene. She felt numb and terribly alone. Mechanically, she turned away and allowed her feet to lead her towards the house. Suddenly she felt like a stranger in her own home, superfluous, unwanted. The unfairness of it all stabbed at her chest. After all, he was the one who had deserted them. She was the one who had kept Abbascombe alive during the long years of the crusade. How could they welcome him back after the way he had betrayed them all?

In a daze she wandered into the kitchen. She often came here first after a cold day out of doors. The warmth and delicious smells suffusing the little stone outbuilding, separated from the main house for fear of fire, always seemed so cheering and welcoming. Today, though, the normal busyness had become a frenzy of activity. Fritha, the cook, had been expecting to be feeding a hall full of hungry labourers after their day’s work in the fields—and suddenly she was faced with the return of her long-lost lord. Normally level-headed, it was no wonder she was a little flustered by the news.

‘Oh, isn’t it wonderful, my lady? Maud says he’s just like his father was at that age.’

‘Does she? Of course, I can’t judge.’

‘Oh, my lady. And to think we all believed he might be dead, begging your ladyship’s pardon. But after all those years and not a word.’

‘That’s quite all right, Fritha, many crusaders will never return from the Holy Land. It was always possible that my lord might have been one of them.’

Oh, why, why did he have to come back and spoil everything she’d worked for? Just when the worst was over and she could start to enjoy life at Abbascombe, her Abbascombe. No, not hers anymore. His Abbascombe. She’d have to get used to that. By law, everything belonged to him. Even she herself belonged to him, Hester thought with a shudder.

How could anyone call that justice? He didn’t care for her or for the manor. He’d made that clear when he deserted them both. He had left her behind to struggle and strive, to dirty her hands with the Abbascombe soil, to cover them with blisters and chilblains from hard work out of doors in all weathers. She had earned Abbascombe. By rights it was hers. And if he thought she would give it up easily, he had a lesson to learn.

No doubt he intended to lock her up indoors with tapestry work and harp-playing, while he strutted about the fields—her fields. Of course, he’d be sure to make a mess of everything again. He would leave misery and destruction in his wake as he had ten years before.

‘My lady? Which would you like, my lady?’ Fritha was asking, looking into Hester’s face with a frown.

‘Which?’ Hester repeated absent-mindedly.

‘The venison or the beef?’ Fritha suggested, her tone making it clear this wasn’t the first time of asking. Hester looked blank.

‘For my lord’s dinner tonight. Of course, it will mean dinner will have to be served later than usual. If only he had arrived earlier in the day, I could have prepared something really special.’ Fritha had obviously been running through all the options, while Hester’s mind had been churning.

‘But we’re saving those meats for Easter, aren’t we?’ Hester returned.

‘But, my lady—’

‘No, no, don’t break into the stores, Fritha. That bruet we had last night was perfectly good. Haven’t we got any of that left?’

‘There’s plenty left, my lady, that’s what I’m giving all the villagers. But you can’t give that to his lordship on his homecoming. It’s not good enough for him.’

‘We looked on rabbit bruet as a great treat three years ago, have you forgotten?’

‘I know, my lady, but—’

‘If it’s good enough for all of us, it’s good enough for him. The bruet will be fine, Fritha.’

‘But—’

‘I will not break into our stores for him and his uncouth friends,’ Hester snapped, her sharp, angry words making Fritha jump. ‘Rabbit bruet is more than they deserve.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she shouldn’t have said them, but she couldn’t help herself.

Feeling Fritha’s surprise heavy in the air, Hester turned her back and strode out of the kitchen, giving the cook no more chances to cajole or argue. She paused for a moment in the covered walkway which linked the kitchen to the hall. There was the hiss-hiss of whispering, which had begun as soon as they believed her to be out of earshot.

She couldn’t make out the words, but she guessed the purport. What’s wrong with her? Not pleased? Didn’t she want her husband back? A man other women would do anything to please—and no doubt many had. But she wouldn’t step an inch out of her way to please him. He could go back to his paramours in the Holy Land for all she cared. In fact, she wished he would.

Hester continued on, along the passageway, through the buttery and into the great hall. She paused at the entrance, glancing up at the timber beams arching high above. The hall was deserted, but soon the dark rider would be here, presiding over his homecoming feast. Hester marched purposefully across the rush-strewn floor. As her feet fell on the soft rushes the scent of herbs wafted up. As she had ordered the day before, new rushes had been laid with sweet-smelling herbs from the garden. He would find nothing slovenly in her housekeeping. A thought flitted across her mind: she hoped he would not think the new rushes had been laid in his honour.

Of course, the perfect lady would have ordered the best of everything and hidden her feelings, Hester thought as she strode up the stone staircase, which rose at one end of the hall, leading up to her solar and the other chambers on the first floor. She knew full well that she wasn’t anyone’s idea of the perfect courtly lady—these years of coping alone had seen to that. Why should she pretend to be one of those soft, pliant creatures, when the world had forced her to become as hard as the Abbascombe rocks in order to survive the buffets of the stormy years?

What did she care if everyone knew the truth? Why should she pretend to be something she wasn’t? And why should she pretend to care for him after the way he had treated her?

Hester needed to be alone and the only place was her solar. With its sparse furnishings and magnificent view down over the fields to the sea, it was the only refuge now from all the flurry and excitement of this hollow homecoming.

As she reached the solar, though, she stopped short on the landing outside. The door was open and inside two of the girls were hurriedly changing the bedlinen, while two more were attempting to attach to the wall a moth-eaten old tapestry which she’d banished years before. It was a picture called The Betrothal and showed a knight kneeling to a lady in a garden of roses. Its sentimentality annoyed Hester intensely. In the middle of all this activity, Maud was behaving like a whirlwind, pulling old gowns from the chest, holding them up for examination, then discarding them on the floor.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Hester demanded, flinging back her plaits with a toss of the head, which reminded her that her hair was still caked with dried mud.

‘Oh!’ Maud jumped, turning to see her mistress. ‘We’re just doing a little housework, my lady—’

‘Was this your idea?’ Hester interrupted, nodding at the tapestry, which was now hanging limply by one corner since the girls had let it go in their shock at seeing their mistress. It was obvious that Maud had intended to do all this without her knowledge and to present her with a fait accompli.

There was a nervous silence. ‘Well?’ Hester prompted.

‘I thought it would make the room a bit prettier,’ Maud suggested, her head on one side. ‘A bit of colour. And I’m just trying to find a pretty gown for you to wear tonight. And the girls…’ she petered out, seeing the rage on her mistress’s face.

‘The girls are changing the bedclothes,’ Hester finished for her.

‘Well, yes, my lady.’ Maud smirked. ‘They’re putting on the bridal linen. See how beautiful it is. See the embroidery and the fine stitching. It was worked by his lordship’s mother years ago, but it’s still beautiful. I’ve kept it wrapped with lavender and…’

Hester felt herself blush red hot. One of the girls giggled, but Hester didn’t trust herself to look her in the face and scold her. All she could do was stare at the bed. Her bed. And now everyone was expecting her to share it with him. That rude, dirty stranger who’d come to steal everything she loved in the world, the very things closest to her heart. And, as if that weren’t enough, he would take her body too. Body and soul. Body and soul. The words pulsed through her mind. He owns me body and soul.

‘Get out…and take that stupid thing with you,’ she commanded, flinging her arm towards the tapestry.

‘But, my lady—’ Maud began.

‘But, my lady, but, my lady! That’s all I hear from everyone. Don’t torture me by talking your rubbish.’

‘But it’s such a great day, God be praised. Our lord is back. Your husband…’

‘Leave me,’ Hester insisted and held the door wide for the girls and Maud to exit, then slammed it behind the old woman and surveyed the room. The tapestry still hung there limply.

The whole place had gone mad—and for what? For the return of a man who had deserted them all when they had needed him most. They were simpletons to welcome him back. Didn’t they realise he would be off again in a trice whenever it suited him?

She spun around to the tiny window slit in the wall. A little moonshine glowed through it, an invitation to her eyes. There were her fields, lying beneath the vast night sky, stars twinkling above them, and the sea beyond, huge and dark. She could hear it crashing relentlessly against the cliffs. Hester stared out into the inky gloom and felt emotion pricking at the backs of her eyes.

‘I won’t cry,’ she whispered to herself. ‘No matter what he does to me, what he takes from me, I won’t cry.’

It was the vow she had repeated to herself for the past ten years, ever since the fever had taken her parents. Ever since then, however dire life had been, sheer willpower had prevented her from shedding a single tear.

She felt as alone now as she had done then, coming to this strange place, full of strange faces. She knew them all now, but none of them understood her feelings, none could understand her horror of this thief-husband come to wrench away from her all she valued.

But moping wasn’t the answer—that would solve nothing. What she needed was action, a plan. Hester scratched at her head, trying to stimulate her thoughts. No plans jumped to mind, but she did realise that she was still covered with mud, now dried and flaking. In fact, it was making her scalp itch and her clothes stiff. She definitely needed to change her clothes and have a really good wash, and, yes, Maud had thought of everything. As well as a fire blazing in the hearth, there was a large bowl of hot water in the corner behind the screen.

Glad to be doing something, Hester pulled off her clothes quickly, dropping them in a muddy heap on the floor. The water was warm and smelled of lavender. There was something calming about standing in her warm bedroom washing herself after the shocks and humiliations of the day.

She picked up the cake of soap. It was one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, quite different from the caustic soap they boiled up in the kitchen using lard, which stank to high heaven as it bubbled away. This soap was fine and hard, pale brown in colour, made in Spain using oil of olives and smelling pleasantly of that distant land. Hester had bought a stock of it at last year’s fair in Wareham on Maud’s strict orders, else the price would definitely have deterred her. ‘It’s what my lady Adela always used and you could do worse than emulate the old mistress’s ways,’ Maud had scolded time and again when she saw the dirt which always seemed to be ingrained in Hester’s hands.

As Hester scrubbed at her arms with the soapy flannel, her mind grew numb, which seemed a blessing after the way it had been racing a few minutes before.

She dipped the cloth into the water and rubbed it more gently over her skin, trying to wash away all the tension and uncertainty which that man—her husband—had brought with him. She unplaited her fair hair and fluffed it out before dipping her head into the bowl. The water soothed her aching head as she massaged her scalp. Looking down, she almost smiled as she saw the contents of the bowl turning brown with mud. How often Maud had berated her for her unlady-like ability to attract dirt.

Tipping the dirty water into the slop bucket and refilling the bowl from the warm jug, Hester began to rinse herself clean. Across the room, the door clicked as it opened and shut again. So, Maud had soon recovered from her scolding and was returning to help her dress.

‘Pass me a towel, will you?’ Hester called out, as she stood dripping behind the screen, squeezing the water from her long hair.

‘Towel, please, Maud,’ she called again. Maud was being slow, perhaps still sulking from her telling-off. Hester rubbed the flannel over her face one last time in case any mud lingered. Some soap dripped into her eyes and stung so sharply that she stood there blinking and wincing, unable to see anything as her eyes watered with pain.

‘Ouch, I’ve got soap in my eyes. Where’s that towel?’ she demanded, sticking out her hand until the towel was thrust into it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, dabbing at her sore eyes. They were smarting less now as she raised her head and found herself looking not at the plump, familiar face of Maud, but into the hard, rugged features of her husband.

‘You!’ she cried. ‘I thought it was Maud.’

‘No, it’s definitely not Maud,’ he replied, his eyes lingering on her naked curves.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, trying to cover herself with the towel. ‘How dare you enter my room without my permission? How dare you pretend to be my maid? Have you no honour? You despicable…’ Hester realised there were no words to describe the outrage he had perpetrated.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman, I didn’t pretend,’ he protested heatedly. ‘You heard me come in, you asked me to pass you a towel. I fetched you one. I don’t need permission to enter my own house.’

So this was how it was to be. He intended to trample all over her, allow her no rights, no privacy…

‘You despicable rat,’ she snapped.

‘Holy blood, woman, is there no reason in you? I didn’t even know this was your chamber. I haven’t set foot in this house for ten years, remember?’

‘How could I forget?’ Hester shot back.

‘If you must know, this was my mother’s room,’ he continued reluctantly, clearly not at ease giving his explanation. ‘I have happy memories of it. I wanted to see it again. When I entered I thought it was empty. Then you asked for a towel. I supplied it. I did not follow you here to prey upon you and claim conjugal duties, as you obviously expect,’ he said forthrightly, but Hester could see his eyes travelling over her body again and felt herself blushing red-hot under his gaze.

She tried to pull the towel further around her, but was painfully aware of its inadequacy. ‘Prove you’re telling me the truth by not looking at me in that way,’ she ordered.

He laughed, a deep, rich chuckle. ‘My wife seems to require many proofs from me,’ he rejoined, ‘but I will avert my eyes if you wish. Ah,’ he said as the door clicked open once more, ‘perhaps this is Maud now.’

‘Oh!’ squealed the maid, seeing them together. ‘Oh, forgive me,’ she said and turned in a fluster to leave.

‘Maud, come back immediately,’ Hester cried.

‘Oh, are you sure? I’m sorry, my lord, I… My, my, what a joy to see you two getting on so well. Who’d have thought it after ten years apart?’

Hester’s blush of embarrassment merged with one of rage as Guy grinned in the most infuriating manner.

‘Who would have thought it, indeed?’ he echoed, raising his eyebrows and aiming a sardonic look at Hester.

‘And how much you’ve changed, my lord,’ Maud continued, oblivious to her lady’s discomfort.

‘So has the lady Hester,’ he remarked, looking her up and down. She tugged again at the towel, and took a step backwards, trying to retreat into the shadows. ‘I must say, Lady Hester,’ he continued, ‘you have certainly grown beyond all recognition. I had not expected that such a skinny little girl could have grown so well.’

The cheek of the man! Hester felt as if her blushes would never fade as he grinned at her, his eyes lingering on the curve of her hips and breasts, which, she was only too aware, the towel did little to hide. And it was all made worse by his obvious enjoyment of her embarrassment. How could she live in the same house as this objectionable, uncouth lout?

‘Well, much as I would like to stay and assist with lady Hester’s toilette, I must go and wash myself. I look forward to seeing more of you at dinner,’ he grinned, throwing a last insolent look in her direction, as he turned on his heels and left the room, closing the door behind him.

‘Not a word, Maud,’ Hester ordered grimly as the old woman turned to her, her mouth open and drawing breath, ready for much chatter.

Hester dressed hurriedly, pulling on a woollen dress of deep green which had been washed and darned since she had last seen it. Maud’s skill had made it look fairly respectable once more, far more so than when she had last discarded it, when the hem had been stiff with mud and the threadbare patch on the elbows had finally worn through. Glancing down at herself, she saw the way it clung to her hips, then flared out towards her ankles.

‘And now, my lady,’ Maud suggested tentatively, but with a look of cautious determination, ‘I think this would look well with the green.’ She was holding out a fine girdle, woven in gleaming, amber-coloured silk, with threads of gold running through it.

‘Where did that come from?’ Hester asked, her eyes fascinated by the way the cloth was gleaming in the firelight.

‘’Twas my lady Adela’s. I’m sure she would have liked you to wear it. She would have been fond of you.’

‘’Tis too fine, Maud,’ Hester said, turning away in search of her usual, workaday girdle.

‘You can’t wear that,’ Maud expostulated, following her eyes to where the woollen girdle lay, trailing amongst the heap of clothes on the floor. ‘’Tis covered in mud, my lady. All these things must be washed immediately to soak out the soil.’

‘What about my other one, the brown one?’

‘That one is still airing after yesterday’s wash,’ Maud replied firmly. ‘You can’t go down without a girdle. You’ll have to wear this one,’ she concluded, as she gathered up the muddy pile of clothes and headed for the door with an air of finality. The shabby old brown girdle had long since dried, but she wasn’t going to let on about that. She had also decided not to tell Hester that the silken girdle had been worn by Lady Adela on the day of her marriage to the old lord, Sir Guy’s father. She knew her wilful young mistress would have thrown it aside, and Maud was determined to have a little wedding-day finery in evidence for the return of the young lord to his bride.

Hester tentatively fastened the girdle round her hips. Its silken weight hung perfectly, the long tie falling down the centre of her skirt, transforming the faded wool of her dress into a fitting background to show off its amber and gold magnificence. She had not worn anything so fine for years. She only hoped her new-found husband would not assume this finery was in his honour. The last thing she wished to do was to flatter his vanity.

By the time she reached the hall, all the others were seated at the long trestle tables, ready to receive their meal. Sir Guy and the other five were on the dais, already tucking into the wine. As lady of the house, it was her place to serve the guests on the top table. She strode over to the door where the serving girls were appearing with the great bowls of bruet.

‘I’ll take that one for the visitors,’ she said to one of the girls.

As Hester slopped out the stew of meat and vegetables on to the huge, round chunks of bread which sat on the table in front of each of the diners, one of the knights demanded, ‘What meat is this, lady?’

‘’Tis an Abbascombe speciality, a delicacy hereabouts,’ Hester told him.

After an exploratory mouthful, he spluttered, ‘Rabbit! Beauvoisin, she’s serving us rabbit. An Abbascombe delicacy indeed! Is this how you are welcomed home?’

‘My lady was not expecting us, Sir Edward. You must make allowances,’ Guy replied, then he looked towards her and beckoned her over, indicating the empty seat beside him. She sat down silently and picked up her spoon.

‘I’ll tell you what, I wouldn’t stand for it,’ Sir Edward continued. ‘You should show her who’s master, start as you mean to go on, just like training that hound of yours there,’ he said, nodding at Amir, who lay quietly beneath the table at Guy’s feet, waiting patiently to be fed titbits from his hand.

‘Do you compare my wife to my dog?’ Guy asked, amused, glancing at Hester’s furious face.

‘I do indeed. Too many of you young fellows make the mistake of showing injudicious leniency. A wife must be trained to obey her master exactly as a dog unless you wish to store up trouble for yourself later on.’

‘I suspect ten years’ absence has stored up enough trouble already, sir.’

‘All the more reason to act now. Let her feel the strength of your hand tonight.’

‘After ten years away, Sir Edward, I believe Beauvoisin will have better things to do tonight than to beat his wife,’ one of the other crusaders interjected with a leer and they all laughed, except Guy. Hester felt his eyes on her but didn’t dare raise hers to return his gaze. She felt herself flushing with a burning mélange of embarrassment, indignation and trepidation.

The villagers were having a merry time of it at the other tables, knocking back their mugs of ale and toasting the return of their lord. Hester looked at them enviously. She would have much preferred to have been sitting with them, instead of with these offensive, opinionated louts. In fact, she thought, she would have preferred to have been one of them, then at least she could have chosen not to marry. She stole a furtive look at Guy as he drained his goblet of wine. He had said he was going to wash, but it had made little difference to his appearance. He was still scruffy and illkempt and his clothes smelled of long days in the saddle. He was eating his stew, while Sir Edward continued his lecture on the advantages of wife-beating.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ the old boar was saying. ‘My lady will not dare to serve me with rabbit bruet when I reach home. Now, look at that obedient hound of yours…’ This was too much for Hester. Didn’t the offensive old fool know when to stop?

‘If men treat their wives no better than their dogs,’ she retorted loudly, ‘they will behave like dogs and bite their husbands when they have the chance.’ The table hushed and six pairs of male eyes fell upon her. She felt their hostility, but wouldn’t back down now.

Sir Edward spluttered indignantly, the juices of the stew running down his chin. ‘I’d like to see my wife dare,’ he returned sharply.

‘You’ll never see it, Sir Edward, for she will be too afraid of being struck to do it openly. She’ll creep up behind your back when you’re not looking and then she’ll bite you hard.’

Sir Edward was turning red with apoplectic rage. He began hammering on the table with his fist, his eyes popping as he exclaimed, ‘Never heard anything like it, Beauvoisin. This damned wife of yours needs some discipline…’

‘Sir Edward,’ Guy addressed him sharply, ‘You have been away from the company of ladies for a long time. You are unused to the courtesy which is their due, else I am sure you would not have damned my wife.’ Hester shuddered at that final word, but longed to hear Sir Edward’s reply.

‘No, indeed. ’Twas not my intention to offend,’ the older man said sheepishly. ‘But such words from a woman, Beauvoisin, surely you must understand…’ he ended, casting a look of appeal at Guy.

Hester felt ready to whoop with victory, until she saw that Guy was nodding as if in agreement. She opened her mouth with a rejoinder on her lips, but suddenly Guy’s hand was gripping her arm. He leaned across to her, hissing in her ear, ‘That’s enough baiting of Sir Edward, my lady. No matter how you dislike him, he is a guest at your table.’ She swung round at him. ‘And I’ll have no more tongue-lashings from you either,’ he rasped without giving her a chance to speak. ‘Else I shall be tempted to follow his advice and try to beat some respect into you.’

‘That’s it, Beauvoisin, you give her what for,’ Sir Edward was cheering.

Hester slumped back dejectedly in her seat. Her whole world had turned upside down. Here were these uncouth louts at her table, giving her orders, saying that she should be beaten. She, who had ruled here as absolute governor for the last four years since the old lord’s death. It was intolerable, it was disgusting, it was disgraceful—and yet there was nothing she could do to evict them from the domain which had been hers until this afternoon, when this devil of a husband had returned to shatter her kingdom.

‘My lady, not eating?’ asked Maud as she brought another flagon of wine to the table.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Hester replied flatly.

‘Oh, you must eat,’ Maud cajoled gently, then whispered, ‘Don’t worry, my lady, it’s natural to be nervous. After all, it’s just like a wedding night for you, but don’t be too anxious, it won’t be that bad.’

Hester pulled away from her confiding whisper. Maud meant only to be kind, but Hester couldn’t help scowling so fiercely that the old woman went scuttling away out of sight.

More courses followed. Fritha had managed well in spite of the lack of warning, determined to impress her lord even in the face of Hester’s strictures. For the top table there were whole eggs fried in batter with mint custard, shellfish in a vinegar sauce, and an elder-flower cheese tart, while humbler dishes and plentiful ale flowed freely for the villagers.

At last the dinner was over and the villagers rose to leave, many rather unsteady on their feet. In past years this had been a merry night for Hester, celebrating the end of sowing, but tonight she could hardly muster a smile in return for their wishes of ‘Good night, my lady’.

‘Ah,’ exclaimed Sir Edward, ‘at last we can have some civilised entertainment. I was beginning to think those yokels would never leave. If I were you, Beauvoisin, I wouldn’t give my hall over to them so readily. You don’t want people like that getting the wrong idea.’

Guy bowed his head politely and made no reply, but Hester could stand it no longer.

‘Sir, those people you refer to so disparagingly have worked ceaselessly on behalf of the lord of Abbascombe all these years he’s been away. Thanks are in order, not…’

‘Well,’ Sir Edward continued, addressing Guy, ignoring Hester as if she were beneath contempt, ‘you see, she’s been completely spoilt by having her own way. That’s the one fault with the wars—too many women left masterless. And this is the result. You’re going to have your work cut out with her.’

‘I do believe you’re right, Sir Edward,’ Guy replied. ‘And you advise beating how often? Daily? Or perhaps twice daily in such a bad case as this?’ Hester felt her ears burning with outrage as she heard the words. What sort of monster was this so-called husband? What sort of hell was he bringing to Abbascombe?

‘Can’t beat a woman like that too often, in my opinion.’

‘My thoughts precisely. And when should I begin?’ There was a devilish glint in his eye as he stole a look at her. Hester met his eyes fiercely, fury ablaze in her face.

‘Oh, no time like the present. Start tonight. Don’t delay.’

When her husband turned to regard her once again, there was a broad grin on his face, not a cruel grimace, but a look of amusement. Then, to her astonishment, he winked at her before turning back to Sir Edward. ‘But a game of chess first, I think,’ Guy said, rising from the table.

He went to one of the side-tables and returned with a magnificent silver board and an intricately carved wooden box. He set these down on a low wooden chest close to the fire and he and his friends settled down in a huddle. Hester had intended to leave them at the first opportunity, but these intriguing objects held her spellbound. She had never seen anything like them and her curiosity led her to the fireplace as if it pulled her on a string.

The board was a silver square, richly decorated with swirling patterns inside the criss-crossing squares. From the box, Guy took many beautiful little figures, fashioned delicately in ebony and ivory, and placed them in rows on the squares of the board. Hester stood watching, entranced by their loveliness. She had never seen anything so perfectly crafted. She even forgot to sulk as they began to play, bewitched by the gorgeous little figures, the weird creatures and strangely attired people they represented.

‘Is it from the East?’ she asked at last, unable to contain her curiosity.

Guy moved one of the smallest pieces forward to the next square. ‘It is,’ he replied, meeting her eyes and seeming to welcome her interest. ‘It is very popular amongst the Saracens.’

‘How strange that you should want to bring back their things when you went there to kill them,’ Hester found herself remarking.

‘Damned barbarians deserved to keep their chess no more than they deserved to keep the Holy Land,’ scoffed Sir Edward.

Guy glanced at him with a barely hidden expression of scorn. Hester realised in an instant that he shared none of Sir Edward’s views. But, instead of disagreeing openly, he merely replied, ‘It is a clever, strategic game, good for exercising the brain.’

‘And so beautiful. I have never seen such fine carvings.’ Hester could not restrain her exuberance. Her husband looked up at her in surprise.

‘Yes, I think so too,’ he replied quietly, looking into her eyes. ‘Perhaps you would allow me to teach you to play, my lady,’ he offered.

‘You’d be wasting your time, Beauvoisin,’ Sir Edward cut in. ‘Women can’t understand chess. It’s beyond them. Too much thinking involved.’

‘Perhaps the Lady Hester could prove you wrong, Sir Edward. I believe she may have the necessary skills for chess,’ Guy replied in a level voice, his dark eyes still fixed on Hester.

‘Pah!’ spat his opponent.

‘I should like to learn,’ Hester ventured.

‘Then come, my lady,’ Guy said, patting the wood of the settle on which he was sitting. ‘Come and sit beside me and watch the game. ’Tis the best way to learn.’ Hester hesitated. She longed to watch and learn, but she also wished to keep her distance. Then he raised his eyebrows as if to repeat the invitation, and she found she could hold back no more. In a moment she had crossed the short distance between them and was sitting by his side.

As he moved the dark carvings he told her their names. ‘This is the pedo, the foot soldier…and this is the elephant, or al-fil, as that creature is called in the Saracen tongue.’

‘You speak their language?’ Hester gasped in amazement. Guy nodded.

‘What’s that, Beauvoisin?’ Sir Edward broke in. ‘Not using those damned Saracen words again? I’ve told you about that before.’

‘So you have, sir,’ Guy replied mildly, casting another surreptitious wink at Hester.

She did not know what to think. Suddenly it was as if they were allies against the ghastly Sir Edward. But Guy wasn’t her ally, he was her enemy, her thief-husband, who had stolen himself away and had now returned to steal Abbascombe away from her too. And yet, there was something about his presence which drew her.

He leaned forward to move the little horseman and, as he did so, his knee brushed against hers. She felt herself flinch. He must have felt it too, for he moved away from her slightly, allowing her a little more space on the settle. He continued to explain the game as if nothing had happened. ‘We call this piece the knight. He is the heroic warrior riding into battle, rather like your husband.’ There was a note of bitterness in his voice and his smile, as she looked up, was a sardonic one.

‘You said earlier that you were a hero,’ Hester ventured.

‘So I did,’ Guy murmured, just loud enough for her ears only. ‘But I do not always mean everything I say.’ He paused. ‘I said some other things to you earlier which I would prefer unsaid, if ’twere possible.’

Sir Edward was moving the intricately-carved chariot.

‘That piece is the rukhkh, or chariot in our own language,’ Guy explained. He paused for a moment, then his hand went straight to his knight, swooping down upon his opponent’s king. ‘And that, Sir Edward, is shah mat; meaning, my lady, that the king is without resource, nothing can save him and therefore the game is over.’

‘You’ve won!’ Hester exclaimed.

‘There’s no fooling you, is there?’ Sir Edward spluttered, draining his goblet once more. ‘I say, I didn’t expect that. How did you manage it? Oh, I see. Well, Beauvoisin, damned good play.’

One of the girls brought yet another flagon of wine and there was a clamour as goblets were thrust forward for her to fill. Guy and Sir Edward stood aside, allowing the other knights to cluster around the board and begin a new game, rather more fuddled and wine-sodden than the last.

Hester took her chance to move away and went to stand in a shadowy nook beyond the great fireplace, where she thought she might observe her guests unnoticed. After a few moments, though, Guy was beside her once more.

‘So, my lady, would you still like to learn chess?’

Hester nodded silently. The game still fascinated her, but she was wary of allowing him to draw her into private conversation. Instead, she continued to stare towards the chessboard as if studying every move, though heaven knew her thoughts were dominated by the man beside her.

He allowed the silence to last a few moments longer. The fire crackled and spat as it caught a new log. The knights’ goblets clinked and chinked as they drank.

‘What had you planted in that field?’ he asked then, his voice low and serious. ‘The one where we…’ he hesitated, searching for the right word ‘…where we met this afternoon.’

‘Barley,’ Hester replied tersely, her annoyance returning with the memory of those heavy horses on her crop, and of the indignities she had suffered at his hands.

‘We were in high spirits, having reached our destination,’ he said, a note of apology in his voice, as he drained the wine from his goblet and set it down on the settle with a clatter.

Hester nodded, but said nothing.

‘It has been a long absence and a lengthy journey home,’ he continued.

‘My lord has no need to explain. It is your own crop to do with as you choose. I did not know then who you were,’ Hester answered in as level a voice as she could muster.

‘And I did not know…should perhaps have realised, but…’

‘You still call Abbascombe “home”, then?’ Hester interrupted, unwilling to hear his explanations.

‘Of course. There has not been a day these ten years when I did not think of it, and of those I had left here.’ There was an openness in his words which surprised her.

‘I had not thought you would ever return,’ she replied matter-of-factly, determined to keep all hint of emotion out of her own voice.

‘There were times when I shared your doubt, but I always meant to return, always wished for a homecoming. And now I am here,’ he said, looking around the hall. ‘I am luckier than many who will never see home again.’

‘Is it as you remembered?’

‘Some things are the same,’ he nodded. ‘But others are greatly changed.’

As Hester stared intently ahead of her, pretending to watch the chess, she suddenly felt his hand reaching for hers. As his strong fingers closed around hers, she tried to pull her hand away, but he tightened his grip. She was frozen to the spot, caught between a wish to flee and a strange longing to remain.

‘You, my lady, for instance. The passage of ten years has done much to change you,’ he continued, his voice a deep whisper in the shadows.

‘I was a child when you left.’

‘That is the picture I have kept in my memories.’

‘You thought of me?’ Hester demanded, leaping on the idea. It had never seemed likely that she would have featured in his thoughts. The gawky girl foisted on him in marriage, the last thing he could have wanted. Why ever should he think of her when he had run away to escape the doom of being married to her against his will?

‘Yes, of course I thought of you,’ he replied, a breathless urgency in his voice. ‘I thought of you very often. I wondered…’ He hesitated.

‘What had become of me?’ Hester supplied, as lightly as she could manage.

‘Not only that. I wondered what we might have become together…’ and as his words evaporated, he was lifting her hand to his lips. Hester expected the usual kiss on the back of her hand, but, as he lifted her hand upwards, he turned it lightly in his fingers, so that his lips fell upon her palm and lingered there. She felt the roughness of his bristled skin, but also the softness of his lips in a gesture so intimate that the rest of the world seemed to disappear. Suddenly she and he seemed to be alone in a sensual world, in which the sensation of his lips against her skin was all that mattered. She could feel it taking hold of her, taking control.

‘Oh, yes, I have thought of you,’ he whispered, his breath tingling against the soft skin of her arm. Hester could feel herself sinking into his words, into the depths of that voice, its velvety darkness enveloping her.

She felt his other arm close around her waist and realised he was pulling her towards him. The scent of the wine on his breath filled her nostrils as he lowered his head towards hers and she knew in an instant that he intended to kiss her. As if a bolt of lightning had illuminated the night, she suddenly saw again all his faults and wrongdoings, which somehow he had managed to conjure out of her mind.

So, he thought he could return after ten years, ten years in which there had been no word to say whether he was dead or alive. Ten years through which she had striven to bear the humiliation of his absence; years through which she had struggled to keep Abbascombe alive. He thought he could come back now, the returning hero, to take what he wished from the demesne and from her.

In a flash Hester saw again the bridal linen which Maud had laid on her bed, smelt its lavender scent, felt its smooth freshness against her bare skin, felt his hot flesh against hers, and she knew she could not bear it. Could not bear to give in to him, could not bear to allow him his rights after all he had done. The years of desertion, the pain, the emptiness. She could not give herself up to him, to be torn apart again by his callous disregard. He might want her now, at the end of his journey, a homely possession to be reclaimed. But what of tomorrow or the day after? What would he want then?

With dazzling clarity, she knew that she must escape him if she were to save herself from obliteration in his arms. His proximity seemed to have sapped the strength from her limbs, but the gathering terror in her mind concentrated all the energy back into them. With one swift movement she pulled herself out of his grasp, her hands braced against his broad chest. Her eyes met his for an instant, looked into those dark pools, as he murmured, ‘Hester?’

She hesitated an instant. Then she summoned the final ounce of strength necessary for her escape. She stepped away from him and, as she left his touch, the spell was broken. She turned her back on him and she was away, running across the hall and up the staircase, not daring to look back now in case he followed her.

She was sure she could hear footsteps close behind. She must reach her solar in time to slam the door in her pursuer’s face and shoot the bolt home. Her feet were on the landing, she had reached this far without feeling those powerful hands pulling her back. And now she was at her door. She darted inside, slamming the door behind her and shooting the huge bolt home across the thick, solid oak.

She pressed her ear to the wood, listening for the footsteps, but all she could hear was her own laboured breath panting with exertion and fear while the blood seethed in her head.

She waited, every nerve and muscle in her body tense with anticipation as she held her breath, trying to hear what was happening outside. There seemed to be silence. Was he creeping up on her? The element of surprise? It didn’t matter, she told herself, there was no way he could get through this great, heavy door. She pushed at the bolt once more to make sure it really was secure. Yes, it was absolutely fast. She had nothing to fear.

She slumped on her bed, her nerves quivering and her ears still listening for tell-tale sounds. Then, as exhaustion washed over her, it submerged her fear, and swept her into a dark, troubled sleep.