Читать книгу Tamed by the Barbarian - June Francis, June Francis - Страница 8

January 1461

Cicely Milburn’s brow furrowed as she stared at the bloodied abrasions on the horse’s flank. Whose mount was it? She placed gentle fingers on its neck and the gelding quivered beneath her touch. Yet when she held out a wrinkled apple on the palm of her hand, it lipped the fruit and took it into its mouth. She smiled and moved away to her own palfrey in the neighbouring stall.

Noticing two dried-up burrs picked up on the return journey from her father’s steward’s house, she removed them. She was worried about her fifteen-year-old brothers and wished Matt had not had to make the journey to Kingston-on-Hull, to enquire of his twin, Jack, and their widower father. He had taken most of the male servants with them, concerned about the rumours of a great host of Lancastrians in the vicinity of the Duke of York’s castle of Sandal a week or so ago. If there had been a battle, then, in the aftermath, one could expect to encounter wandering soldiers on the rampage. She wished her stepbrother, Diccon, was here to share the burden of worry with her, but she had not seen him for the last six months and she feared for his safety. She fingered the dagger that hung from her girdle, then glanced round apprehensively as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

Anger surged in her veins at the sight of the man standing there. ‘Master Husthwaite! What are you doing here? How could you use this poor horse so cruelly?’ she demanded.

‘So there you are, Mistress Cicely. I’ve been looking for you.’

The mousy, lank-haired man ran chilling silver-grey eyes over her in a manner that caused her gloved hands to clench.

‘For what purpose?’ she asked coldly.

Master Husthwaite sucked in his cheeks and then released them noisily, not answering her question immediately. ‘The beast is a slug. My uncle should have insisted on his clients paying their bills more readily and then I could afford a finer horse.’

‘What do you mean—should have insisted?’

‘My uncle died recently and I am taking over his business.’ He approached her, sliding one hand against the other, his eyes fixed on her well-formed bosom. ‘So I came here in haste, after speaking to Master Matthew in Knaresborough. I thought you might need my help.’

She stiffened. ‘Why should I need your help here on my father’s manor? I am quite capable of managing the household myself. If in need of further assistance, I can call on Father’s steward’s wife.’

Master Husthwaite stroked his lantern jaw, his eyes narrowing. ‘It is a different kind of help I would offer you. When Master Matthew told me he was travelling to Kingston-on-Hull to seek news of your father from his agent, I was deeply concerned.’ He took a step closer to Cicely. ‘I fear you must brace yourself for bad tidings.’

‘I don’t know why you should deem that so,’ she retorted. And, feeling a need to put some distance between them, she moved to her horse’s head. ‘It is not the first time Father has failed to arrive home when expected—especially during the winter months. Stormy weather can delay a ship’s departure.’

‘No doubt that would be true if your father and brother’s arrival was only a few days or a week overdue,’ said Master Husthwaite, ‘but it is now the feast of St Hilary and, according to your brother, six weeks since he last heard from them. I really do think you have to accept that your father might well be dead.’

‘No!’ she cried, forcing back the dreadful apprehension roused first by Matt’s conviction in the last ten days that his twin brother was in pain. ‘I will not believe it is so.’

‘Naturally, you don’t want to accept his death as a reality, but you must do so because we’ll need to consider your future.’

‘We? What do you mean? I hope you do not have it in mind to interfere in my affairs,’ said Cicely, her fine eyes flashing blue fire. ‘It is no concern of yours. I—I am betrothed and will be wed at Easter.’

His deep-set eyes flickered. ‘I have found nothing amongst your father’s papers about such an arrangement.’

‘Nevertheless my wedding will take place.’ Cicely was furious that he should have access to her father’s private papers. She was certain that if Nat Milburn had known this clerk would dare to step into his dead uncle’s shoes, he would have left orders for another man of business to be found instantly.

‘So you say. Tell me—who is this so-called betrothed?’ demanded Master Husthwaite.

‘His name is none of your business. Now will you kindly leave, as I have to prepare for the return of my brothers and father.’

He glared at her, but instead of quitting the stable, he reached for the whip thrust through a strap on his saddle and lashed out at her horse. Cicely let out a scream of rage and, throwing caution to the wind, caught hold of the whip’s lash when he would have used it again. Her attempt to disarm the man resulted in her being catapulted against him. The breath was knocked out of her and he swiftly took advantage of her position. His arms went round her and he squeezed her so hard that she could scarcely breathe.

‘Unhand me at once! You forget yourself,’ she gasped.

He laughed and sank his head into the smooth flesh of her neck. She screamed and resisted as, inch by inch, he forced her down on to the damp straw. In the struggle, her headdress was dislodged and her hair swirled free. He grabbed a handful of it and brought her face close, seeking her mouth with his own. She baulked at the glimpse of his rotting teeth and the smell of his stinking breath, but she managed to get a couple of fingers to his chin and pinched it. He knocked her hand away. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ he snarled.

Cicely feared that she would, but what happened next proved her wrong. Her rescue took place so swiftly that she could barely believe that in moments she was free and Master Husthwaite lay still on the ground. She was lifted to her feet as if she weighed no more than thistledown.

The pressure of her rescuer’s hand seemed to sear through her gown and set her skin tingling, a sensation that she found intensely disturbing in a completely different way from the shock of Master Husthwaite’s attack on her person.

Her eyes were now on a level with an intricately patterned brooch that gleamed dully like pewter. This fastened a roughly textured woollen cloak at a weatherbeaten neck. Her gaze moved higher and the breath caught in her throat at the sight of the unshaven chin and the strong cheekbones of a man’s rugged face, framed in a tangle of chestnut hair that fell to his shoulders. He spoke in a dialect that caused her initial feelings of relief to turn to stunned dismay. Thoughts whirled in her head as she remembered going on a pilgrimage with her dying mother to a priory at Alnmouth not far from the border of England with Scotland. Her mother was from that area and an admirer of the Celtic saints, who had brought the gospel from Ireland.

The man spoke again, but more slowly this time. ‘I hope he did not harm you badly, lass?’

She shook her head and her golden hair swirled about her shoulders. His eyes widened as he reached out a gauntleted hand and touched a strand, tucking it behind her ear. She froze, remembering the tales told to her twin brothers by their great-uncle and grandfather. “Enough to chill the blood,” her mother had often said. There was no doubt in Cicely’s mind that the border Scots were an uncouth race and she feared this man had saved her from Master Husthwaite’s foul intent for his own pleasure. If she had been the kind of female given to swooning, she would have chosen that moment to do so. Instead, her fingers crept to the dagger hanging alongside the keys at her girdle and fastened on its string-bound hilt.

Mackillin’s gaze skated over her blanched face, noticing that her eyes were the colour of bluebells, which grew beneath the rowan trees near Loch Trool. His mind was not the kind normally given to poetic thoughts, but he reckoned, if asked, that he could write a sonnet to such eyes. She had a heart-shaped face, a perfectly shaped nose and lips that were just asking to be kissed.

There was that in his gaze that caused Cicely to dart out a nervous tongue and wet her lips. She knew that it was now or never to draw her dagger. ‘Keep away from me, you—you barbarian!’ she said, brandishing the weapon in front of her.

Except for the flare of his nostrils, he appeared unmoved. ‘And if I don’t, what will you do with that…toy, lass?’ he spoke deliberately slowly.

‘I would stick it in you. Its edge is sharp!’ she warned.

His eyes glinted. ‘Such gratitude for rescuing you deserves to be rewarded in kind.’ With a carelessness for his own safety that alarmed her, he seized her wrist and twisted, causing her to gasp in pain as the weapon fell to the ground. Then in one smooth movement, his left arm encircled her waist and his right hand cupped the back of her head. ‘A kiss for my pains,’ he murmured, laying claim to her mouth.

She attempted to ward him off, but found it impossible to make an impression against his hard, muscular strength. The pressure from his mouth eased and now his lips moved gently over hers in a pleasant, tingly fashion. She was alarmed that she found even the abrasive roughness of his stubbly chin peculiarly sensual. Only thrice had she been kissed before and it had not caused sparks to charge through her veins, igniting her nerve ends in a truly thrilling fashion like this one did.

But she had sworn to love Diccon as long as she lived. He was the only man with the right to kiss her in such a beguilingly intimate fashion, despite her father having refused his consent to their betrothal. Still, Cicely believed she could change his mind when he returned. Yet now she was allowing this—this savage to kiss her without putting up a fight. She tore her mouth away and raised a hand to hit him, but the blow never landed because, unexpectedly, he freed her.

She glared at him and gasped, ‘My father will make you pay for daring to assault me.’

Mackillin’s eyes narrowed. He knew that it had been a mistake kissing her, but the sight of her lips alone were enough to drive a man to forget any code of chivalry he might live by. As for the golden hair that smelt so sweetly of camomile, he had never seen such hair. His breathing deepened as he remembered that same scent on her skin and his body recalled the feel of her breasts against his chest and the jutting bones of her hips against his nether regions. The stirring in his loins did not abate and he said harshly, ‘Your father? Is he one of the servants here?’

‘God’s blood, no! He’s…’ She paused, uncertain what his reaction would be if he knew she was the daughter of the house. She backed away from him and turned and ran, wondering what he was doing on her father’s manor. The Scots had not raided this far south of the border for decades.

No sooner was she outside the stables than she collided with someone. She gasped as her arm was seized and a familiar voice said, ‘Cissie, what’s wrong? Why did you scream?’

At the welcome sound of her brother’s voice, she collapsed against him. Only to realise that his right arm was in a sling. ‘It’s you, Jack,’ she cried gladly. ‘But what have you done to yourself?’ She touched his shoulder and gazed into his beloved face. ‘Matt knew you’d been hurt. Thanks be to our Saviour that you’re home. Was it that barbarian in there who damaged your arm?’ She gesticulated in the direction of the stable. Mackillin had followed in her wake and stood in the entrance, gazing at them. Cicely eyed him warily. ‘Have you a sword, Jack?’ she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

He glanced at her as if she had run mad. ‘What use would it be against Mackillin? His skill with a blade is greater than any I have ever seen.’

‘So you fought him and lost?’

Jack gazed heavenwards as if for divine intervention. ‘No, Cissie. He saved my life!’

She was aghast. ‘No! He couldn’t have—not his kind. There must be some mistake.’

‘You’re wrong, Cissie. He’s a friend of Father’s.’

‘He can’t be. Father’s a cultured man. Well travelled, well read. What could he have in common with that—that Scottish wild man?’ She glared at Mackillin, who looked at her with an expression on his face that confused her. ‘I must speak to him. Tell him that he dared to kiss me!’ She turned towards the house.

‘Cissie, wait!’ called Jack.

‘What for? If you think to change my mind, then you’re…’ She glanced over her shoulder at him and stopped in mid-flight at the sight of the misery in his face. Suddenly she was scared. ‘What is it? Why do you look like that?’

The muscles of Jack’s throat moved jerkily. ‘You won’t find Father in the house.’

She retreated her steps. ‘Why? Where is he? Has he had an accident?’ He hesitated. ‘You’re scaring me, Jack. Tell me—what’s happened to him?’ she cried.

‘He-he’s dead!’ croaked her brother. ‘Murdered by thieving rogues.’ The colour drained from Cicely’s face and she shook her head, clutching his undamaged arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Cissie,’ he added.

‘I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it!’ Cicely picked up the hem of her brown skirts, revealing the lamb’s-wool ‘bags’ that had encased her legs whilst riding, and raced across the yard. The hens scattered before her as she approached the grey stone house. She ignored the three packhorses waiting patiently to have their loads removed and the man still mounted. She desperately needed to find her father indoors, shouting in his deep voice for his Cissie. She climbed the steps that ran at an angle along the wall to the entrance to the hall and struggled to open the door in the icy wind. At last it gave way beneath her fingers and she went inside.

As Mackillin watched her disappear from sight, that mixture of pity and dismay he felt deepened, overlaid with another emotion that he did not want to acknowledge. He had forgotten Jack had mentioned his sister was comely. If he had remembered, then he might have guessed her identity immediately. Even so, his not knowing she was the daughter of the house did not excuse his handling of her. Yet his body still thrilled with the memory of her in his arms. It was just as well that his sojourn here was of necessity to be short, otherwise he might be tempted to claim the reward the dead Nat Milburn had offered him.

‘I’ll go after her,’ said Jack, looking mortified.

Mackillin stayed him with a hand. ‘Allow her time to gain control of herself.’

Jack hesitated before nodding. ‘So you kissed her. Is that why she screamed?’

‘How could it be? She screamed before I touched her.’ There was a noise behind them. ‘Here is your explanation,’ said Mackillin, facing Master Husthwaite as he appeared, leading his horse.

The man’s jaw was swollen and showed signs of bruising. ‘So you’re returned, Master Jack.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the scowling youth.

‘Gabriel Husthwaite, nephew of your father’s man of business. He died recently and I have taken charge of his affairs. This family will have need of my services if my surmise is right and your father is dead.’

‘Aye. Set upon and murdered.’ Jack looked towards Mackillin with an uncertain expression. ‘This is the man Father’s agent spoke of in Kingston-on-Hull.’

Mackillin’s mouth tightened as Master Husthwaite smiled thinly. ‘Mistress Cicely wouldn’t have it that he was dead, but I told her it was the most likely explanation for his absence.’

‘So that is why she screamed,’ said Jack, running his free hand through his fair hair. ‘Yet she—’

‘Nay, it is not,’ growled Mackillin. ‘He was making a nuisance of himself, behaving in a manner that was unacceptable to your lovely sister.’

Master Husthwaite cast him a sly look. ‘Was my behaviour so different from yours? You demanded a kiss for your pains when you believed her to be a serving girl.’

Mackillin turned to Jack and said in a low voice, ‘Forgive me. She called me a barbarian and wanted to stick a knife in me.’

‘It’s because you’re a Borderer, Mackillin. I’m sorry,’ said Jack. ‘My great-uncle and grandfather used to tell us such hair-raising tales of the Scots reivers that we couldn’t sleep nights.’

Master Husthwaite stepped forward, ‘Mistress Cicely needs a curbing hand on her bridle. She threatened to do the same to me. I was only defending myself when this Mackillin came in on us.’

‘You lie. There was no sign of a blade and you were rolling her in the straw, man,’ said Mackillin, his expression disdainful. ‘She wanted none of you.’

The man sneered. ‘Nor of you. Get back to your own land. This family’s affairs are in my hands and have naught to do with you, barbarian.’

Mackillin’s anger boiled over and he seized Master Husthwaite by the throat of his surcoat and hoisted him into the air. Thrusting him on to his horse, he said, ‘Be gone from here before I put my fist down your throat and rip out your tongue.’ He hit the horse’s flank with the flat of his hand.

Master Husthwaite scrabbled to get hold of the reins and slid sideways but Mackillin forced him upright as the horse set off at a trot towards the beaten-earth track that led to the village and then the highway that would take him to Knaresborough, more than a league away.

Jack frowned. ‘I don’t like this. Father would never have agreed to such a man taking charge of our business affairs.’

‘That man’s a rogue. Is there someone else you can turn to help you deal with him?’

Jack nodded. ‘There’s Diccon, but I don’t know where he is…and there’s our stepsister’s husband Owain, who was a close friend of Father’s. I imagine Matt or Cissie will contact them. I wonder where Matt is?’ He glanced around. ‘He must be out somewhere. Otherwise he would have heard the commotion and come running to see what was going on. I hope he won’t be long. You will stay the night and speak to him?’

Mackillin looked up at the louring sky and nodded. ‘Aye. We would not get far before darkness fell. Now inside and see to your sister while Robbie and I deal with the horses. And, Jack, do not mention aught about your father’s offer to reward me with her hand in marriage. I cannot accept it.’ He urged Jack in the direction of the house. ‘I will see the baggage is taken indoors for you to unpack at your leisure.’

Jack thanked him and hurried after Cicely.

He found her kneeling in front of the fire, stroking one of the dogs. The face she turned towards him was tear-stained and when she spoke her voice shook. ‘I must believe what you say is true. I know you would not jest about such a matter as our dear father’s death.’

‘I’m sorry, Cissie.’ Awkwardly, he put an arm about her shoulders. ‘I’ve dreaded breaking the news to you. Where’s Matt?’

‘He’s gone to Kingston-on-Hull for news of you from Father’s shipping agent. It was in his heart that he might find you both there.’

His blue eyes darkened. ‘The agent did not mention him. When did he leave?’

‘Only this morning and he took most of our men.’ She sighed and got to her feet. ‘So you spoke with the agent. What did he have to say?’

‘He did not seem surprised to hear that Father was dead and spoke of Master Husthwaite. I had no idea his uncle was dead. A courier should have been sent to one of our agents in Europe, then word would have reached us and Father would have come home.’

‘I did not know of the elder Master Husthwaite’s demise until now and as far as I know his nephew has had no proper legal training, but only acted as his clerk.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Anyway, it is pointless discussing this at the moment. We need to get word to Diccon.’

Jack nodded. ‘You know where he is?’

Her expression was sombre. ‘No. But most likely Kate or Owain will know how to get news to him. They all must be informed of Father’s death.’ She paused as tears clogged her throat and had to swallow before continuing. ‘If Diccon cannot be found, no doubt Owain will help us deal with Master Husthwaite if he should prove really troublesome.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

Cicely wiped her damp face with the back of her hand. ‘Tell me, did Father suffer? Were the devils responsible caught and punished?’

Jack kicked a smouldering brand that had fallen onto the hearth. ‘Death came swiftly for him, but not before he had wrung a promise from Mackillin to see me home safely. He killed one of them and so did Robbie, but another escaped.’

Her fingers curled into the palms of her hands. ‘I can’t understand how Father believed he could trust a Border reiver to do his bidding,’ she cried.

Jack looked uncomfortable. ‘He is not what you think. I saw how they recognised each other.’

She was amazed. ‘How could Father know such a man?’

Jack sought to scratch his itching arm beneath the splints. ‘They’ve both travelled. Mackillin owns his own ship. They must have met for the first time before Father promised our stepmother to stop his wanderings—after he inherited this manor from our great-uncle and chose to live here, rather than in Grandfather’s house, which was ramshackle.’

‘I remember. I was twelve summers when Great-uncle Hugo died and left no issue. Father decided to run the two manors as one,’ she murmured through lips that quivered.

Jack’s expression was sombre. ‘Five years ago. Matt and I were ten. Most likely Father and Mackillin met in Calais.’

Cicely sighed and picked up the pillowcase she had been embroidering before she had left the house earlier that day. ‘That’s where Diccon met Edward of York. Father was angry because he was so taken with him and spoke of allying himself to his cause.’ She put the linen down again, too upset to sit and sew.

Jack grimaced. ‘You couldn’t expect Father not to be. He’s supported Henry of Lancaster all his life, despite his being half-mad and a hopeless king. More priest than soldier, so Father said.’

Cicely nodded. ‘This is true and why I suppose Diccon has gone over to the side of York, despite his having been born and raised in Lancashire.’ Yet that was not her father’s only reason for withholding his permission for her and Diccon to wed…the fact that he was landless and had little in the way of money most probably had a lot to do with it, too.

Jack sighed. ‘I’m tired and in no mood to worry myself about the affairs of York and Lancaster right now. We have enough troubles of our own. Father would expect you to show all courtesy to Mackillin. Food and shelter is the least we can provide him with as he refuses to claim the reward Father offered him.’

Cicely’s eyes sharpened. ‘So that’s what brings him here—the promise of a reward.’

Jack frowned. ‘I should not have mentioned it. I told you he has no intention of claiming it.’

‘So he says,’ she said scornfully. ‘He deceives you. He must know Father is a wealthy man. Perhaps he intends to take more than he was offered.’

Jack flushed with anger. ‘You insult him. Mackillin could have cut my throat and stolen our extremely valuable property any time these last ten days. I know he kissed you, Cissie, but you mustn’t hold that against him. It was a mistake.’

Pink tinged her cheeks and she bent over one of the dogs, noticing it had bits of bramble in its rough coat. She gently removed the thorns and said in a low voice, ‘He thought I was a servant girl. That’s his excuse for behaving like a savage.’

‘He’s no savage. You must curb your tongue, Cissie, and be thankful that he sent Master Husthwaite packing.’ Jack sighed. ‘It seems so strange being home without Matt and Father here. It’ll never be the same ever.’ His expression was bleak.

She agreed, thinking that the long winter evenings were even more depressing since her stepmother had died two years ago. She could only hope spring would come quickly, so they could at least spend more time outdoors. It was difficult filling the hours at this time of year because most of the tasks suited to the long dark evenings had been completed—the bottling, the pickling, the salting of meat and the making of candles—although there was always embroidery, darning, as well as salves and soap to make to keep her busy, but that left her mind free to wander and worry about Diccon. She sighed heavily, wishing desperately for her father to still be alive, but that was a wish that couldn’t come true. Instead she was going to have to be polite to Jack’s rescuer and that would not be easy.

As if he had read her thoughts, her brother said, ‘A hot meal and a warm bed is little recompense for all Mackillin has done for us. Right now some mulled ale would not go amiss.’

‘I suppose you’ll want me to give him the best guest bedchamber and prepare a tub for him as well,’ she muttered.

‘That will not be necessary,’ said a voice that caused her heart to leap into her throat and she wondered why the dogs had not barked a warning.

She took a deep breath, pausing to gain her composure before facing Mackillin. He was standing only a few feet away and not only looked unkempt, but stank of horse and dried sweat as well as something indefinably male. She was amazed that her body should have reacted to his the way it had done. He was so large and strong, but she would not be scared of him.

‘Of course, you must have the best bedchamber. You saved my brother’s life and brought him home to us.’ She tried to infuse warmth into her voice, but it sounded stiff.

He inclined his shaggy head. ‘I gave your father my word.’

‘And you honoured it.’

‘Even barbarians keep their word, occasionally.’ His eyes sent out a challenge to her, daring her to deny that she believed him incapable of behaving like a gentleman.

She held his gaze. ‘They have their price, though.’

Mackillin glanced at Jack. ‘I did not tell her,’ he said hastily.

‘Good.’ A muscle twitched in Mackillin’s jaw. ‘I assure you, mistress, you would not wish to pay my price if I were to demand it. Now I would ask only for pallets and blankets for my man, Robbie, and myself. Here in front of the fire will do us both fine.’

But before she could comment, Robbie spoke up. ‘Nay, Mackillin, you’re a Scottish lord now and should have the best bedchamber.’

Cicely stared at Mackillin in amazement. ‘Is this true? You’re a Scottish lord?’

He shrugged. ‘My title is new to me.’

‘That’ll explain it,’ she said drily.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain what?’

She shook her head, knowing she could only say that no sane person would look at him and believe him to be a lord. He could not be blamed for his garments being travel-stained, but they were definitely not made of the finest materials. Beneath his cloak he wore a common leather jerkin instead of the embroidered surcoat and velvet doublet befitting his rank. Her gaze moved downwards and she noted that, instead of silk or costly woollen hose, his legs were shockingly bare. Still, if he was a lord, her father would have expected her to treat him as one.

‘I’ll prepare the best bedchamber, Lord Mackillin.’

‘Despite my appearance?’ he said softly. ‘Forget it, lass. I will not put you to the bother of preparing a bedchamber for one night. You have enough to trouble you this day.’

She did not deny it and inclined her head. ‘If you will excuse me, then. I have yet to tell the servants of my—my father’s death.’

He nodded in response and turned to speak to Robbie and Jack.

She had to force herself not to run to the rear of the hall. One of the dogs trotted at her heels. Beneath the stairway that led to the first floor was a door that opened to a passageway. If she turned left, she would come to the staircase that led to the turret where her bedchamber was situated but, instead, went right and soon found herself passing the buttery, the stillroom, the storeroom and the laundry on her way to the kitchen.

She paused in the doorway, watching the cook taking his ease in front of the fire. The serving maid, Tabitha, was chopping herbs. Tom, a male servant, was conversing with her as he stirred a huge blackened pot that dangled on chains over the fire. Martha, a woman in her early middle years, was singing as she rolled out pastry. They had not heard her coming and started at the sound of her voice. ‘I have sad tidings.’

Cook slowly got to his feet. Tabitha dropped her knife and Tom and Martha paused and gazed at Cicely. ‘What is it, mistress?’ asked the cook.

‘The master is dead.’ Cicely’s voice trembled as she fought to not give way to her emotions.

Martha gasped.

‘We feared as much,’ said the cook with a doleful shake of the head. ‘He was a good master. He’ll be sadly missed.’

‘How did it happen?’ asked Martha, wiping her hands on her apron.

Cicely repeated what Jack had said, adding that they had guests for the night in the shape of a Scots lord and his man. ‘Perhaps you can use the remains of the mutton to add strength to the barley soup I was going to have for supper,’ she said, feeling distraught.

Cook nodded. ‘We could kill a couple of chickens, as well…and I’ll need to bake more bread.’

She agreed. ‘I will leave it to you to do what is needful.’ Running a hand over her hair, she added, ‘You’ll be using the fire in here, so I will use the hall fire to mull some ale. Tom, will you fetch a couple of pallets and blankets from the chest in the passage by the best bedchamber?’

‘Aye, Mistress Cicely.’ He hurried out.

Cicely fetched a jug of ale and a jar of honey from a shelf in the storeroom and, from a locked cupboard, removed cinnamon and ginger. Her grief was like a weight in her chest as she carried the items into the hall. There she saw her brother and Mackillin in conversation, standing where the baggage had been stowed in a corner.

At her approach, they moved away and sat on a bench, watching as she placed a griddle on the glowing logs, and on that an iron pot. Aware of Mackillin’s eyes on her, she prayed that Diccon would sense her need of him and come home. The disturbing presence of the Scots lord and Master Husthwaite’s arrogance made it imperative that she see him as soon as possible. Her concern was that he might have been caught up in fighting between the forces of Lancaster and York. Oh, why did he have to go and give his loyalty to the Duke of York’s heir? The trouble was that her stepbrother could be stubborn and, having little in material goods, was determined to make his own way in the world.

Tom appeared with the bedding and placed it near the fire to air. She whispered to him to see that their guests’ horses had enough hay and water before supper was served. After a wary glance at the two strangers, he hurried to the stables, taking a lantern with him.

Cicely did not leave the spices to infuse for long, certain that her brother and the men were so in need of a hot drink that they would not mind it not being too spicy. She fetched cups and ladled the steaming brew into them, whilst all the time she was worrying about how Matt, now heir to the estate, would cope with the terrible news of their father’s death.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed in the next few days,’ said Jack, watching her approach with their drinks. ‘There’s an eerie glow in the sky above the fells in the west.’

‘That’ll be the sunset,’ said Cicely, dismayed at the thought that if a blizzard set in they might be cut off and she would have to cater for two guests that she would rather be gone. Now was not a time for having to see to the needs of a guest, and a Scots lord at that! She needed to grieve and devote her hours to prayer for her father’s soul and Diccon’s safe return.

‘Is that cup for me?’ asked Mackillin, gazing down at her.

She nodded, steeling herself to meet his eyes with a coolness she was far from feeling. ‘Aye, Lord Mackillin. Is there aught else you need? I could show you to a small bedchamber. Perhaps you’d like to change the garments you’ve travelled in…and have water to wash your hands, face and feet.’

A devilish glint showed in his eyes, lighting facets of gold and green in the iris. ‘Just Mackillin. I appreciate the offer, but I’m warm in my dirt, lass. As for changing my clothes, what’s the use of that when I’ll be travelling in them on the morrow?’ He removed his gauntlets and reached for the pewter cup.

She made certain his fingers did not touch hers. ‘As you wish,’ she said abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

He inclined his head and she almost fled into the kitchen. He was a savage. She found the women servants plucking chickens and saw that dough was rising on a stone slab close to the fire. Realising that it would be some time before supper was ready, she left them to their tasks. Taking a lantern from a cupboard, she lit the candle inside and made for the door that opened on to a spiral staircase that led up to her turret room.

Built a hundred years ago during the times when the Scots had raided this far south of the border, the house had been fortified. Since then, improvements had been made to the property, but her dead stepmother had constantly said it should be pulled down and a cosier, more convenient one built in its place. Her father had laughingly suggested that his wife might prefer his father’s house and she had not complained again.

Cicely had been hurt at such criticism of the house she had always liked and had hoped that when she and Diccon wed, he would be willing to live here, so they could all be one big happy family. Now her dreams were all up in the air due to his prolonged absence, and with the changes her father’s death would necessarily bring. Her eyes filled with tears again and she brushed them away with her sleeve.

She came to her bedchamber and was grateful for the warmth and light from the charcoal brazier that had been placed there earlier in the day. Darkness had fallen and she could hear a rising wind so, hastily, she crossed the room and closed the shutters.

She yawned and sank on to the bed. Her shoulders drooped as her heart ached with sorrow. She longed to lie down and escape into sleep. Mackillin! Was he being truthful when he’d said he wished for no reward? And what had he meant when he said that she would not wish to pay his price if he were to seek it? She remembered the feel of his lips on hers and the hardness of his chest against her breasts. Could he possibly have hinted that bedding her was the reward he would have demanded? The blood rushed to her cheeks and she got up hastily and went over to the chest at the foot of her bed.

She lifted the heavy lid and pushed it back, holding the lantern so she could peer inside. When her stepmother had died, Cicely, aided by her maid, had made mourning clothes to attend her funeral and had worn them almost constantly for months afterwards. Even though there would be no such service for her father here in Yorkshire, Cicely wanted to do everything possible to honour his memory and that meant dressing in a way that was fitting.

She put down the lantern and pulled out a black surcoat and unadorned black gown, knowing that a requiem mass must also be arranged. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand and she poured some into a bowl and washed her hands and face, drying them on a heavy cotton cloth that her father had brought from one of the great fairs in Europe. She removed her muddy shoes and the lamb’s-wool bags, as well as her outer garments. Then, over a cream woollen kirtle, she put on the black gown made from the finest wool that her father’s tenants’ flocks produced. On top of these, she fastened a silk-lined, padded surcoat, trimmed with sable, the fur having been shipped from the Baltic and bought in Bruges.

Again, she rummaged to the bottom of the chest and this time took out a sweet-smelling cedarwood box from its depths. She removed a girdle that was made of links formed in a pattern of silver leaves and fastened it about her hips before lifting a fine silver chain and crucifix from the box and fastening the chain about her neck. She found black ribands in a cloth bag, wove them through strands of her hair and braided them into two plaits. Lastly she slipped on heelless leather slippers before sitting on her bed and wondering what to do next.

Her emotions were in confusion and she felt too close to weeping to face the men downstairs just yet; especially the Scottish lord, whose eyes expressed much that his lips did not say. Lord or not, she still believed him a barbarian at heart. The manner in which he had swept her into his arms and kissed her had been truly shocking. She lay down on the bed, thinking of those moments. Her eyelids drooped and she told herself it was unseemly and sinful to still dwell on his kiss. Instead she should be praying for her father’s soul and considering what they should do when Matt returned. Her thoughts began to drift and, within minutes, she was asleep.