Roped muscular arms looped tightly around her waist. She gasped out, a mixture of terror and outrage, her fingers snarling in desperation around the harness.

But to no avail. He plucked her up with ease, lifting her so high that her feet were far above the ground. Under the sheer force of the movement her grip loosened on the harness, her fingers flailing in the air as he slammed her against his solid frame to carry her away.

The jolting impact of the man’s body against her own sent shock waves coursing through her. Her face was on a level with his, his chest was hard up against her soft breasts, her hips were bouncing intimately against his muscle-bound thighs. A wild, hectic colour flooded her pale skin; she wanted to die in shame. Never, never had she been so close to a man!

MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now, with a family to look after, writing has become her passion … A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure.

Commanded by the French Duke
Meriel Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Wiltshire, England—October 1265

‘Thank you, Ralph, for coming today.’ Alinor of Claverstock turned to the burly lad sitting beside her on the cart seat, a trace of relief in her voice. Despite the faint rays of a weak October sun, she shivered in the chilly morning air, her green eyes vivid, shining, as she threw him a grateful smile.

‘Any excuse to break from ploughing in the stubble, mistress,’ Ralph replied with a quick grin, flicking the reins expertly down the bristled backs of the oxen as they began to slow. His skin was ruddy, sunburnt from his constant work outside. ‘Market day in Knighton is certainly a better option.’

‘I probably could have managed on my own.’ Alinor fixed her eyes on the rutted track ahead before it disappeared around the curve of the next hill, willing the oxen to move slightly faster than their current snail’s pace. Leaning back against the wooden seat, she adjusted her slight frame to the incline of the cart as it lumbered to the valley bottom. ‘I feel guilty for taking you away from your other duties; there’s so much to do at the Priory at this time of year.’

Ralph twisted around, his muscled shoulder jogging into the towering pile of grain sacks behind them. ‘I would have liked to have seen you try and shift this lot, mistress. Besides, it’s not right, a lady of your—’

‘We’ve been through this, Ralph.’ Alinor cut off his speech abruptly. ‘The nuns need my help and I’m happy to give it.’ She flicked the uneven hem of her practical gown down over her boots, stained dark from the heavy morning dew. Through her silk hose, which she had forgotten to change in her haste to reach the Priory that morning, the coarse wool dress scratched uncomfortably at her legs. Around her waist, at the point where the knotted girdle pulled in the baggy garment, her skin itched. She glanced up at the sky where the sun was attempting to push through a rolling bank of pale-grey cloud. When the light broke through, the rays were hot, illuminating the mists that rose from the dew-soaked fields, polishing the grass to silver.

‘Well, it’s very good of you, my lady.’ The cart lurched over a large dried-up rut in the track, a sudden, jolting movement, and Ralph frowned as one of the cart’s wheels began to squeak ominously. ‘I knew I should have put some extra grease on that wheel before we left,’ he muttered.

‘Will it slow us up at all?’ Alinor asked quickly, then bit down on her bottom lip, hoping Ralph hadn’t noticed the urgency in her tone. Behave normally, she told herself. No one must suspect anything. Usually, she would take the whole day to attend the market in Knighton, selling the grain before buying any goods that the nuns might need. But today? Today she wanted to return to the Priory as soon as possible. Ralph had no idea what she had done and neither did the nuns. But if no one knew of the girl’s existence, she would be safer. Only Alinor knew where she was hidden. Clasping her knees tightly, she willed her heart to stop racing. The sooner she could help the poor maid leave the country, the better.

‘I’m sure we will reach the market,’ Ralph reassured her, ‘and I’ll fix it while I’m there.’ As they squeaked past a solitary hawthorn, branches thick with red berries, three magpies rose, squawking indignantly, blue-black feathers glossy in the sun, white flashes on dark tails.

Running a finger around the tight curve of her wimple, Alinor tried to loosen the restrictive cloth around her neck and temples. The thick white linen wound about her throat, rising around her face to cover every strand of hair, over which she wore a piece of fawn-coloured linen which served as a veil. Even now, her stepmother’s mocking tone echoed in her skull; Wilhelma simply couldn’t understand why her stepdaughter would choose to wear such sober garments: a plain, undyed linen gown with a mud-coloured veil. But then, Wilhelma failed to even comprehend why she would help the nuns in the first place. Her stepmother would never think of helping anyone, apart from her wonderful son, Eustace. An involuntary shudder crawled down Alinor’s spine; no, she would not think of her stepmother now, of what that woman had wanted to do. Elements of that terrifying night at Claverstock shot through her brain: desperate, splintered images that sent ripples of anxiety through her slight frame. She smoothed out the fabric of her gown across her knees, plucking at a stray thread. Dragging her thoughts to the present, she forced her brain to focus on her task today. The market. Selling the nuns’ grain at a profit. The sisters would need the money to get them through the coming winter; she needed to concentrate on that.

As the sun rose, the air became unseasonably muggy, oppressive. Clouds of midges rose up, dancing above dank wet spots beside the track. Parched leaves, edges curled up and blackened, drifted down from the few trees dotted here and there in the sloping fields that ran down to the path, catching under the cart wheels with a dry rustle. The scant, shifting breeze carried a sharpness, a forerunner of winter.

‘It’s not far now, mistress,’ Ralph said, across the incessant noise of the squeaking wheel. ‘The bridge is around this next bend.’

And then the river was before them, startling, glinting silver. Water rushed, cackling throatily across the stones at the shallow, stone-strewn edges. In the middle, the river was deep and fast-flowing, the surge of current too dangerous for a horse or person to cross safely. A narrow packhorse bridge spanned the gurgling flow with four stone arches, rising steeply at the centre to counter any problems with flooding in winter.

Clusters of brown-winged seeds bunched beneath the yellowing leaves of the sycamores by the river’s edge; a few spun down, circling crazily around her, landing on her shoulders, her lap. ‘Quick, let’s cross it before someone comes the other way!’ Alinor grasped at Ralph’s arm. ‘I want to get to the market before noon.’

‘There’s no one around, mistress,’ Ralph said, pushing back his chestnut hair, the smooth strands flopping across his brow. ‘It’s too early for most folks.’ Pulling on the reins, he guided the oxen towards the flared stone entrance of the bridge, their hooves slipping on the steep ascent of greasy cobbles. He drove the animals along carefully, their heads nodding in unison as he steered them between the stone parapets. As they passed the middle of the bridge, an ominous crack sounded from the squeaking wheel, followed by a sickening sound of crunching wood. The cart tipped violently, the right side dropping down with a significant jolt.

‘Oh!’ Alinor’s arms flailed outwards, instinctively seeking to steady herself as she was thrown to one side. For one horrible moment she thought she would lose her balance and tip straight into the whirling river below, but Ralph grabbed her arm, hauling her back.

‘Damn it!’ he cursed in annoyance, pushing distracted fingers through his hair. ‘Wait here, my lady, and hold the animals while I see what’s happened.’ Squeezing his brawny frame between the stone parapet and the cart, he ducked beneath.

She heard a muffled groan. ‘The axle’s broken,’ Ralph shouted up to her, coming back. ‘I’ll have to fetch some help before we can shift this thing.’

‘Then I’ll come with you,’ Alinor said, shuffling to the edge of the seat.

Ralph held up a hand to forestall her. ‘Probably best if you stay here, my lady.’ He glanced at the voluminous fabric that spilled out from her girdle and draped over the seat, material that would hamper her stride. ‘With the greatest respect, I can move more quickly on my own. Besides, someone needs to stay with the cart; those sacks of grain are worth a lot of money.’

‘A whole winter’s worth,’ Alinor agreed. Ralph’s words made sense.

‘Will you be all right on your own, my lady? I’ll not be gone long. I seem to remember passing a farmstead a couple of fields back.’

‘Of course,’ she replied confidently. ‘I have my dagger—’ she touched the leather scabbard hanging from her plaited waist belt ‘—and no one would ever dream of attacking a lay sister, or at least someone dressed as one!’

Ralph laughed. ‘Not unless they wanted to risk eternal hell and damnation!’ He waved casually and loped off along the way they had come.

Alinor sighed. Wriggling her spine against the cart seat, she allowed the reins to drop beside her. Out of habit, she kneaded her left forearm, trying to alleviate the slight, constant ache that had plagued her since her accident, a small frown crinkling the skin between her finely etched brows. The oxen stood patiently, ears flicking idly at the flies massing above their heads. There were more trees now, along the river: sturdy beech, willow, stubby hawthorn dotted the flat, wide valley. The earlier cloud had dispersed and now the rising sun filtered through the shifting leaf canopy, casting a dappled glow.

A warmth suffused her body. Closing her eyes, she lifted her chin, drinking in the balmy heat across her skin. If only she could forget, for a moment, what had nearly happened. The breathless rush as she had helped the girl into her clothes; the headlong sprint across the moon-soaked land, huddled together in hooded cloaks, hiding behind trees, stealing along ditches like thieves. A long, juddering breath caught in her chest at her own daring, the subterfuge. There was no knowing what her stepmother would do if she discovered the truth of what Alinor had done.

‘Make way, in the name of Prince Edward!’ A harsh, guttural voice barged into her senses. Alinor’s eyes popped open in horror; she jumped to her feet, panic slicing her innards. A group of horsemen were gathered on the other side of the bridge; nay, not horsemen, knights, for they wore helmets and chainmail, their red surcoats emblazoned with three gold lions. The mark of the King, and his son, Prince Edward!

Her chest hollowed out in fear, a debilitating weakness hammering through her knees; she wondered if she would fall. God in Heaven, where had they sprung from? They had approached so quietly, it was as if they had materialised from the very trees, like ghosts, ghastly apparitions!

‘We need to cross this bridge,’ one of the soldiers shouted up at her, hoarse tones emanating from a shiny metal helmet. ‘Move the cart now, Sister!’

Sister. Of course, from her garments they believed her to be a nun. Alinor stared at them, terrified, trying to find the words, the courage to address this formidable group. A dozen men or so, chainmail hauberks glinting and winking in the sunlight, lower legs encased in riveted plate armour. They were armed: swords, pikes, maces and shields; the lead knight carried the King’s red banner on a pennant. Her mouth was parched, fear cleaving her tongue to the roof of her mouth. What would they do to her, these soldiers of the King? ‘I...I cannot,’ she managed to say, but her voice emerged as a pathetic whimper and they failed to hear.

‘Speak up, woman,’ the lead soldier bawled at her, leaning forward in his saddle as if to hear her more clearly. ‘What ails you? Why do you not move?’ He threw a comment back to his companions; they laughed in response.

Alinor flushed; no doubt the soldier’s words had been derogatory. She cleared her throat, summoning up the power in her lungs, the nerve to speak more loudly. What was the matter with her? It was not like her to be intimidated by knights; she came from a high-ranking family who had entertained the King and Queen and their entourage on several occasions. She had a perfect right to be here, on this bridge, as much as the next man, and anyone could have an accident, couldn’t they?

‘The axle is broken on the cart,’ she shouted out in loud, clear tones, tilting up her nose in the hope of projecting an air of superiority. ‘The servant has gone to fetch help; he should be back very soon.’ Beneath the folds of her gown, she crossed her fingers.

‘Then it seems we have a problem,’ the soldier replied, throwing his thick-set body down from his horse and moving towards the bridge. ‘Prince Edward rides not far behind me and expects us, as his outriders, to clear the way for him. He’s in a hurry, Sister, and does not like to be held up.’

Standing on the cart, Alinor shrugged her shoulders, her arms spread wide, palms upturned. ‘What can I do?’ she replied. ‘I cannot move the cart by myself...’

‘Then we’ll have to help you.’ The soldier strutted boldly towards her. ‘First, we need to lighten the load.’

‘The sacks are quite heavy to carry,’ Alinor explained, ‘but two of you would manage...’ Her mind tacked back to earlier in the day, her breath fanning out like a veil in the pre-dawn air, when Ralph and his younger brothers had loaded the cart. It had taken two of them to lift each sack...

‘I have no intention of carrying your measly sacks anywhere,’ the soldier replied, his voice muffled by the helmet as he squeezed past the oxen to the back of the cart. Drawing his short sword, he slashed violently at the first sack, cutting the coarse hessian from top to bottom. Grain poured out, spilling over the side of the bridge, down, down into the rushing water. A whole field’s worth of harvest.

‘What are you doing?’ Alinor squawked at him in disbelief. Anger rose in her gullet, mirroring her fear. Panic rattled through her veins, but she had to overcome it, to fight it, for how could she let this thug, this ruffian, behave in such a way? How could she allow the nuns’ hard work to disappear beneath a river’s churning current? ‘How dare you!’ As the sack emptied, the soldier tossed the flapping remnants of the sack over the stone parapet and moved on to the next sack. At this rate, the nuns would lose everything!

‘Come on, men!’ The soldier ignored her furious words, curving one heavy arm upwards to summon his companions, as he moved along methodically. ‘Come and help me!’

‘No! No! Stop! You cannot do this! You have no right!’ Alinor yelled at the soldier, jumping down from the cart. Grabbing at the soldier’s arm, she pulled down hard, preventing him from slashing into the next sack. Pausing, he twisted around, holding the flashing blade up to her face, foetid breath wafting over her from the crossed slit in his helmet.

‘Take care, Sister,’ he warned. ‘I’m not in the habit of killing innocent nuns, but I’m sure I can make an exception on this occasion if you continue to goad me.’

The knife-point quivered beneath her nose. Silver in the sunlight, glinting, dangerous. How easy it would be to run away now, to acknowledge the fear that dragged at her belly, the fear that sapped the ligaments in her knees. She could simply turn tail now and hear the soldiers’ taunting laughter pursue her as she stumbled away. But it wasn’t in her nature to give up, to give in to people like this. They were bullies, pure and simple, and she wasn’t about to let them get away with this.

‘You don’t scare me,’ Alinor scoffed back at him. ‘I’m sure your Prince would have something to say if he knew what you’re doing!’ Her fingers scrabbled for her scabbard, fumbling for her dagger within the leather holder.

Within the shadowed confines of his helmet, the man scowled. ‘The only thing the Prince is thinking about is beating the rebel Simon de Montfort and he doesn’t care how he goes about it,’ the soldier hissed. ‘He wouldn’t give a fig for the likes of you. So step back, Sister, and let me do my work.’

He turned away again, about to cut into the next sack.

Rage boiled through Alinor’s veins, hot, surging; drawing her knife, she slashed down on to the soldier’s bare hand, cutting into his palm. He cried out in pain, blood spurting from his callused flesh; her attack was so unexpected that he dropped his short sword in surprise, blade clattering to the stone cobbles below. In a trice, she had kicked it away, sending the weapon spinning into the gloom beneath the cart. In the same moment, she saw her opportunity: the jewelled helm of the soldier’s long sword gleaming out from his scabbard. Her nerves jittered—was she really about to do this? There was no time to think about it. With both hands on the sword helm, she wrenched upwards, withdrawing the shining metal blade easily, and stepped back so the tip waggled dangerously towards his throat. She had helped her father on with his chainmail enough times to know where the weak spots were, where a blade could pierce the skin.

‘Step away from the cart!’ Alinor fought to contain the wobble in her voice. Fear washed her mind blank. How was this going to go? She had stopped him from ruining the sacks, but now what? Glancing behind quickly, she checked that no other soldier was creeping up behind her. But the rest of the group remained gathered beyond the bridge, pointing and laughing at their unfortunate comrade. They obviously didn’t think he needed any help, fully believing he would best her in the end; it was purely a matter of time. Come on, Alinor, think, she told herself firmly. Use your wits! Her slim fingers wound around the cross that hung across her bosom.

Cradling his bleeding hand, the soldier’s eyes blazed with annoyance through the slit in his helmet. ‘Give up now, Sister, and give me my sword back; there’s another dozen soldiers back there for you to fight before this is over. Your prayers are meaningless—your God cannot help you now.’

And there she had it: the dart of an idea. Let them think that she called on darker beings to help her now. Her pearl-studded cross hung down on a rope of thin wooden beads; she held it out and aloft, narrowing her eyes in what she hoped was a suitably threatening expression. ‘I agree...’ she lowered her voice to a sibilant hiss ‘...but I summon the Devil to help me now.’ She began to murmur in Latin, first softly, then louder and louder; unless he was a proficient Latin scholar, the soldier would have no idea that her words were complete nonsense. It was fortunate for her that at the same moment, a large black cloud moved slowly across the sun, dimming the landscape, sending a dusty gust of wind to scurry crisp leaves along the river bank, bouncing wildly. The soldiers fell silent; they watched Alinor, open-mouthed, faces greying as they realised what she was doing. As she spoke, she jabbed the sword in the man’s direction and slowly, slowly he backed away, around the other side of the cart, before staggering back to the other soldiers.

‘She’s put a curse on me!’ Alinor heard the soldier shout, pointing back to her. Her wrists ached from holding up the heavy sword, but she refused to let it drop. A curious bubble of laughter, or was it hysteria, welled up within her; she clamped down on it, hard. These men couldn’t see her laugh. Let them continue to think I’m giving them the evil eye, she thought. I’m safe here on this bridge as long as they believe that and so is the grain. But she lifted her eyes briefly skywards and prayed for Ralph’s swift return.

Suddenly, she felt very, very alone.

* * *

‘Where in the Devil’s name are we?’ Edward, son of Henry III of England, thrashed petulantly at the arching brambles with his sword, eventually pushing his horse into a small, shadowed clearing in the beech forest. He pulled his helmet off with an angry movement; sparse strands of pale blond poked out from around the edges of his chainmail hood. ‘And where are my outriders? I thought they were scarcely half a mile ahead? They’re supposed to come back and lead us through!’ He scowled, thin mouth rolling down at the corners like a spoiled three-year-old.

Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens, shrugged his massive shoulders as he reined in his glossy destrier to stop beside Edward’s horse. The three golden lions embroidered across his surcoat gleamed in the sunlight as he drew off his leather gloves and tucked them beneath his saddle front, lifting off his own helmet and pushing back his chainmail hood to reveal a shock of vigorous dark-blond hair. He shook his head roughly, relishing the kiss of balmy air against his hot scalp.

‘Well?’ Edward regarded him irritably, swatting at a fly buzzing lazily around his face.

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Guilhem replied, rolling his shoulder forward, trying to relieve the itch beneath his chainmail. ‘Although as we’ve been riding half the night, I suspect they might have taken the opportunity to grab a short rest.’

‘We haven’t got time for a rest!’ Edward spluttered, yanking on the reins as his horse skittered nervously beneath him. ‘There are rumours that de Montfort might have crossed the River Severn; if that is the case, then they’ll be heading east as we speak!’

‘I know. But they are only rumours, Edward. If the men are tired, they’ll be in no position to fight and we’ll lose anyway.’ Guilhem’s blue eyes regarded Edward calmly. He was used to his friend’s moods, the excitable energy that few men could match, the intense, determined stamina on the battlefield.

‘I could fight now,’ Edward muttered sulkily, ‘and so could you.’

Yes, he could fight, Guilhem thought. But then he could always fight, night or day. He never seemed to feel the cold, or to experience hunger or fatigue. Fighting suited him, suited his personality—to be in the fray, driving onwards relentlessly, to have no time to think or feel. It was better that way.

‘We both could, Edward, but I suspect we’re in the minority. The soldiers need to rest.’ He flicked his head around to watch the remainder of the men gather behind them at the edge of the clearing; knights on horseback stretched back in single file into the shadows of the forest, Edward’s royalist army. Exhaustion etched their faces. ‘I suggest you take the men to your mother’s palace at Knighton and beg some board and lodging. The rebels can wait.’ He tilted his head on one side. ‘What do you say?’

‘You suggest I take the men? Why, what are you going to do?’

Guilhem sighed. ‘I promised my mother I would visit my sister. She has travelled over to be married to an English noble and I believe his castle is not far from here.’ He grinned as Edward’s mouth turned down sulkily. ‘It’ll only be one night and then I’ll join you at Knighton.’

“You need to rest as well. Why not come with us now and see your sister on the morrow?”

“Alright.” Guilhem nodded, then tilted his head, listening intently. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said softly, drawing out his long sword from the scabbard. The steel blade rasped along the leather, a sibilant hiss. His eyes searched the area swiftly, body poised, tense and alert in the saddle. The sound of twigs breaking, of horse’s hooves thumping heavily, came from the other side of the clearing. One of Edward’s outriders came flying towards them, his helmet gone, face red and excited. He pulled so violently on the reins that his horse skidded to a stop, the whites of its eyes rolling back wildly. ‘There’s a problem!’ he managed to gasp out.

Chapter Two

The only problem, as far as Guilhem could gather, seemed to be a diminutive nun dressed in what looked like a grey baggy sack and holding a large sword which he suspected did not belong to her. The substantial blade dwarfed her neat frame, semi-precious stones winking dully at the leather-bound helm. The maid stood at the apex of a packhorse bridge, legs planted wide, a laden ox-cart tilting precariously behind her; at intervals she would swish the sword from left to right in a vaguely threatening manner. From what he could work out, not one soldier had made any attempt to overthrow her; instead, they stood in a miserable group on the river bank, helmets off, horses plucking in desultory manner at the spindly grass. Why were they holding back? Surely it was a simple matter to take her down?

‘What is going on here?’ Edward said, dismounting swiftly, reddish-blond brows held together in a deep frown.

‘Er...well, this...this lay sister...’ one of the soldiers began to explain, clutching at his hand. The other men collected around him, shuffling their feet, nodding encouragement to their companion.

‘Are you bleeding?’ Edward demanded roughly, snatching at the man’s hand and opening the stubby fingers. Blood trickled slowly from a deep cut across the soldier’s palm.

The soldier flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘She did it.’ He nodded in the direction of the bridge.

Edward glared at him, pale blue eyes narrowing to slits. ‘She did it? Are you trying to tell me that a nun attacked you? God in Heaven, call yourself knights?’

‘Look at her, sire. She’s giving us the evil eye, muttering godforsaken words at us. Words of the Devil. We tried to make her move the cart, but she slashed at my hand and took my sword! Then she raised her cross and...and put a curse on us! I swear, it’s the truth, sire. We daren’t touch her.’

‘What utter nonsense,’ Edward shot back. ‘Let me deal with this.’

‘Allow me,’ Guilhem said, stalling Edward’s forward step with a burly arm across his friend’s chest. Shoving his helmet towards a soldier, he pushed back his chainmail hood so it settled in loose folds across his shoulders. ‘It wouldn’t do to have the King’s son cut down by a woman.’

‘As if!’ Edward snorted. But he stopped, sweeping his arm out with mock courtesy. ‘However, I have no wish to be cursed, either. Be my guest.’

* * *

The knight who walked towards her was tall, a red woollen surcoat covering his muscled torso and broad shoulders. Despite his height, he carried his body with graceful athleticism, like an animal: powerful, self-assured. Beneath his surcoat, glittering chainmail covered his massive arms, but, in contrast to the other soldiers, he wore no plate armour on his shins. Instead, calf-length leather boots and woollen trousers covered his long legs. His head was bare, chainmail hood pushed back to reveal a thatch of burnished hair, more dark blond than brown, strands thick and wayward, framing a lean, tanned face, prominent cheekbones dusted with sunburn.

Alinor licked her lips rapidly, desperate for a drink of water, for something to calm her, to quell the rising tide of fear that filled her chest, that channelled her breathing into short, quick gasps. Her wrists were weak, fatigued from holding up the cumbersome sword. Her left arm ached, the scar pinching painfully. Where had he come from? Suddenly the short, rotund soldier who had first accosted her seemed infinitely preferable to this approaching barbarian! Everything about him frightened her: those fierce, glinting eyes of midnight blue; his stern mouth set in a grim, intimidating line and that imposing height—all made her innards quail, leap with terrified anticipation. Her heart fluttered incoherently. Have courage, she told herself. You’ve managed to hold them off so far, you can do it again. This is not your grain in the cart and the nuns need the income from it in order to survive. If you let it go now, they will have nothing.

The knight had reached the head of the oxen.

Blood thrummed in her ears. ‘Go away!’ she stuttered out, waving the sword threateningly in the direction of his chest. The heavily embroidered gold lions danced before her eyes. ‘Olim erat urbs magna, nomine altum est!’ The Latin speech poured out of her, nonsensical.

To her utter surprise, the knight laughed, his wide mouth breaking into a smile. Small lines crinkled at the side of his eyes. ‘Your curses don’t scare me, Sister. I don’t believe in God, or the Devil either. We have no intention of hurting you; we merely want to cross the bridge, but you seem to be blocking it.’

‘The wheel is broken,’ Alinor explained. Her voice juddered out, high-pitched. ‘Your men know that already! And that one over there...’ she jabbed the sword point in the direction of the first soldier who had come across to her ‘...started cutting at the sacks, spilling the grain, pouring it into the river!’

Guilhem stuck his thumbs into his sword belt. The supple leather around his slim hips emphasised the bunched muscle in his thighs. He frowned, blue eyes sweeping across the damaged sacks behind her. A lock of burnished hair fell across his brow, blond tips grazing his tanned forehead. ‘And for that I can only apologise,’ he replied. ‘The man overstepped the mark, but I think he has paid the price; you’ve cut him quite badly.’

‘He deserved it!’ A vivid colour flushed Alinor’s cheeks. ‘I thought he was going to help me and then...to waste the grain like that!’

Her eyes were truly the most astonishing colour, Guilhem thought. The wimple wrapped around the perfect oval of her face seemed only to enhance the clear, brilliant green of the irises, glowing like huge emeralds, translucent glass. His heart lurched suddenly, unexpectedly.

‘Just give me the sword, Sister,’ he demanded gruffly, annoyed at the unwelcome nudge in his groin. A nun, for God’s sake! What had got into him? She was nothing to look at: short, no doubt with a vast mountain of flesh beneath that unbecoming gown and a shaved head under that head-covering. A bride of Christ, married to Our Lord. Untouchable. He should know better.

‘Never!’ Alinor hissed out. ‘Why should I trust you...or them—’ she nodded mockingly over at Edward’s men ‘—to do the right thing? Your reputation, or should I say, your notoriety, precedes you! Everyone knows what Prince Edward is like! He’s a devil and a rogue, and that goes for all who serve him, as well! I’m staying here and I’m not moving until my friend comes back with help to mend the wheel.’

Irritation burned through him at her rudeness. ‘Be careful, maid.’ His voice lowered in warning. ‘Your accusations are treacherous and based on ignorance; you would do well to remember who you’re dealing with, lay sister or not. Edward does not take kindly to those who defy him...’ his sparkling eyes roamed over her ‘...and neither do I.’

Alinor reeled back in fright as he lunged forward, wrenching the sword helm easily from her and lobbing it back along the bridge with a clatter. The blade spun away, sliding across the flat cobbles. ‘No...o...o!’ she protested weakly, senses spinning; for one sickening moment, she thought she might faint. Quickly, she wound her fingers into the oxen’s leather harness, thinking to stay close to the cart that way.

‘Forgive me, Sister,’ the knight said, but there was no forgiveness in his tone. ‘But if you refuse to move, then I will have to move you.’

Roped, muscular arms looped tightly around her waist; she gasped out, a mixture of terror and outrage, fingers snarling in desperation around the harness. But to no avail. He plucked her up with ease, lifting her so high that her feet flailed above the ground. Under the sheer force of the movement, her grip loosened on the harness, fingers flailing in the air as he slammed her against his solid frame to carry her away.

The jolting impact of the man’s body against her own sent shock waves coursing through her; her face was on a level with his, his chest hard up against her soft breasts, her hips bouncing intimately against his muscle-bound thighs. A wild, hectic colour flooded her pale skin; she wanted to die in shame. Never, never, had she been so close to a man before!

‘You let me go! This instant!’ she demanded, fury and humiliation shunting aside her fear. Battering small fists down on the top of his shoulders, she wriggled violently in his fearsome grip, wanting him to drop her, kicking at his shins and stubbing her toes against the inflexible muscle. ‘Put me down! I’ll make you pay for this!’ Beneath his tunic, the tiny links that made up his mail coat poked into her raging fists.

He chuckled, a throaty sound rippling upwards from his chest. ‘You make a lot of threats for someone supposedly from the house of God. And for a woman.’

Bashing furiously at his shoulders, Alinor failed to hear him. ‘Let me go,’ she shrieked again, ‘let me go!’ Sanity fled, as if snapped away in a sharp breeze. She would do anything to extricate herself from his punishing grip. Instinct drove her, the instinct to survive. Leaning forward, she sunk her teeth into the soft, downy lobe of his ear, senses poised for the smallest release of his arms so she could wriggle away.

It didn’t come.

‘Why, you little...!’ Guilhem roared at her, outraged, his brawny arms still clamped around her, muscles like iron rivets against the small of her back. ‘You bit me!’ His eyes flared across her white, fearful face.

Her confidence shrivelled; convinced he would release her after she had bit him, she had given no thought to the consequences. Why had she not been meek and mild, subservient? How foolish she had been! What would they do to her, a single maid in a group of royalist soldiers? My God, it didn’t bear thinking about! A shriek rose up on an engulfing tide of fear, a high-pitched screeching welling in her chest, bursting out from her mouth in incoherent splutters, gathering strength; her mind blanked completely, washed through, crumpling into a vast wasteland of utter terror.

Her screams, shrill and anguished, made his ears hurt. Wincing, Guilhem reached the riverbank with the struggling bundle in his arms. He wanted to assure the maid that everything would be fine, that they had no intention of hurting her, and that all they wanted to do was be on their way, but he knew his words would make no impression. Given the noise the nun was making, she simply wouldn’t hear him.

‘Sweet Jesu! Will you stop that caterwauling?’ Edward said as he strode towards the pair of them. ‘I’ve had enough of this!’

The blow came out of nowhere, a large fist slamming into the side of Alinor’s cheek.

The maid’s body reeled sideways at the violent impact, limp in Guilhem’s arms, unconscious. Her head lolled forward on to his shoulder, linen veil fanning out across his surcoat. He didn’t even have time to step back, to pull her away from Edward’s damaging swing, the full force of his blow. ‘I’m sorry,’ Edward said, staring with dismay at the senseless maid in Guilhem’s arms, ‘but that infernal screeching was crawling under my skin; it made me mad.’

‘Really?’ Guilhem replied, his tone constrained, dry. He adjusted his arms so that the girl’s body was more evenly balanced against him. God, when would Edward learn to control his temper? He swung her legs up towards his chest, so that she lay secure against him, her weight light, surprisingly delicate. Her voluminous gown concealed a trim figure, a slender indent of waist. The curve of her hip nudged against his forearm. ‘It was completely unnecessary. To hit a woman, Edward, and not only a woman, a lay sister!’

‘I know, I know,’ Edward said, pale eyes immediately contrite. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’

Guilhem’s eyes lowered, scowling at the mass of purple bruising on the woman’s cheekbone. Blood trickled down towards her wimple, staining the white cloth, blooming steadily across the fabric like a blossoming flower. Her eyes were closed, long velvet lashes fanning her cheeks. But her breath puffed against his jawline, warm and regular. Thank God. Ignoring Edward, he carried her over into the shade of a beech tree and laid her down, carefully, on the ground.

He walked over to help the other soldiers unload the grain sacks, stacking them neatly at the side of the bridge. Unhitching the oxen, they led the animals over to the trees, securing their reins to the lower branches. Watched by Edward, grim and unsmiling on his horse, they managed to half-drag, half-carry the ailing cart from the bridge, depositing it safely on the river bank.

‘What I can’t understand is, what was the stupid chit doing on her own?’ Edward said suddenly, exasperated, trying to mitigate his guilt, as if he were less likely to hit a woman if she had a man with her. ‘I mean, what woman travels alone, these days? It’s unheard of. Foolish. Stupid.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Guilhem said. ‘But apparently she told the soldiers she had sent her man to fetch help with the broken axle.’ He flicked his gaze over to the spreading beech tree, at the prone, motionless figure, the stark white face.

‘My mother would tear a strip off me if she found out that I’d hit a woman,’ Edward said, his narrow mouth turning down ruefully.

‘I doubt it,’ Guilhem replied. ‘The Queen adores you and well you know it. She would blame the girl for bringing it upon herself.’

Edward threw him a curious lopsided smile. ‘Well, her behaviour was completely out of order...’

‘It was certainly...unusual,’ Guilhem replied. Most women would have run away at the first sight of the soldiers, rather than guarding the cart with its mediocre haul of grain. She had been horribly frightened, but had held her ground, hitting out like a cornered animal. Admiration threaded through him, a grudging praise; although she had been foolish, it had taken a great deal of courage to do what she had done.

‘Anyway...’ Edward adjusted his leather gauntlets around his wrists ‘...let’s move; we’ve wasted enough time in this godforsaken place. Let’s rideto Knighton. To the palace.’ He looked around the clearing, satisfied that the other soldiers were mounting up. ‘Where’s your horse?’

‘I’ll catch you up,’ Guilhem said bluntly.

‘Wh-what? Please don’t tell me you intend to shilly-shally around a common nun? Her manservant will be back in a moment!’

Guilhem patted the neck of Edward’s horse, rubbing his calloused thumb against the soft pelt. ‘I want to make sure she’s all right.’

‘An attack of conscience, Guilhem? What’s the matter, feeling guilty on my behalf?’

Guilhem shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, merely concerned.’ The feeling of guilt was nothing new to him, hanging constantly from his shoulders like a grey shroud. ‘She’s vulnerable lying there like that, unconscious; any woman would be.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, leave her! Get on your horse and come with me’

‘I’ll follow on.’

Edward’s mouth drooped with disappointment. ‘You’ve gone soft, Guilhem,’ he said bitterly. ‘Ever since that day at Fremont—’

Guilhem shook his head, a swift, decisive moment, stopping Edward’s speech. He had no wish to be reminded of that awful day. Remorse lurched through his heart. The burning castle. That child...

Edward eyed his friend’s stony expression. ‘Don’t let it affect you so, Guilhem. You paid the price.’

‘I set the fire that killed him,’ Guilhem replied tonelessly. A child’s life lost through his thoughtless actions. ‘I’ll follow on.’

Edward slumped in the saddle. Hazy shadows cast by the beech trees dappled his skin, sunburnt and freckled. Guilhem was indispensable, his best commander. But he had no authority over him: Guilhem was not a knight in Edward’s pay, he was a rich man in his own right, a man who chose to ride by the Prince’s side from a sense of loyalty, of friendship. Because Edward had helped him. Saved him.

‘Oh, if you insist,’ Edward said finally, resigned. Raising his arm, he gave the order for his soldiers to mount up and follow him. Kicking his heels into the destrier’s flanks, he rode away, clattering across the flat square stones of the bridge, horse’s tail swishing in his wake.

* * *

The sun had moved behind the clouds again. Beneath the tree the light was dim, streaked in shadow. Ducking his head beneath the low swaying branches, Guilhem crouched beside the girl’s prone figure, pillowed in a mass of spent beech leaves, her gown billowing out from a girdled waist, the cloth sinking down around her limbs to display the rounded curve of her hips, slender thighs. Leather boots poked out from a rickety hemline. And hanging from her belt, a dagger, carried in a leather scabbard! Surprising, for a lay sister to carry a blade; he thought they believed that prayers and the Cross would protect them in all circumstances. Obviously, this one had other ideas.

He knelt in down in the spongy ground, shins sinking into the mess of decaying coppery vegetation. A single leaf, burnt orange, fluttered down from above, landing on the coarse cloth covering her midriff, the concave hollow of her stomach. His nails dug into his palms, resisting the urge to brush it away.

‘Come on,’ he said brusquely, stroking the side of her cheek. His breath hitched at the silky sensation spiralling upwards through his blood. Her skin was like goose down, delicate, milk-white, a single freckle above her top lip. His big body hulked over her fragile frame, awkward, graceless, like some giant about to devour its prey. Most of his life had been spent bawling at soldiers, training them to fight, to battle harder, faster, longer. He’d been fighting for so long, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent in the company of a woman, had forgotten how to treat them. ‘Come on!’ he repeated, more loudly this time. Moving closer, his knees snaring her skirts, he seized her shoulders, shaking her gently. Her head rolled back against the leaves; she moaned softly.

Her eyes opened slowly.

* * *

At first, Alinor’s vision was hazy, clouded; above her head, a trembling latticework of leaves, yellow, brindled, scuffing gently in the breeze. Where was she? Why was she lying here? Damp seeped upwards from the ground, soaking through the thin fabric of her gown. She wriggled her shoulders, trying to reduce the uncomfortable feeling. Her cheek ached incessantly; she examined the smarting skin with tentative fingers.

‘No,’ a gruff voice said, ‘leave it.’ Firm, decisive fingers pushed away her hand.

Alinor’s stomach lurched in recognition. Oh, God, not him again! The man knelt above her, face tough and brutal, slanted grooves carving down from his cheeks to the square angularity of his jaw. Fear whispered through her veins. She pushed her hands down into the ground, trying to push back from him. ‘You, go away!’ she stuttered out. His knees pinned her skirts; she was trapped. ‘Get away from me, you...you barbarian!’

To her surprise, he laughed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ His voice was low, melodious, curling through her veins like velvet smoke.

‘You hit me!’ she spat out weakly, eyes flaring with accusation.

‘Not me,’ he replied calmly. ‘The Prince. You wouldn’t stop screaming.’

‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ she flung at him, her tone brittle. ‘To hit a woman because she’s making too much noise?’ Anxiety knotted her heart; she wished she had the strength to leap up, to push the man away.

‘I don’t agree with what he did...’ the man hulked over her like a huge bear, shining chainmail wrinkling across his shoulders ‘...but you must admit, your behaviour was extreme, and discourteous. It’s customary to defer to royalty, to show respect, but you, you showed anything but!’ His eyes pierced her, twilight blue, intense and predatory.

‘I had to protect the grain,’ she mumbled. The rounded bulk of his knees brushed against her midriff, hot through the thin stuff of her dress. Too close! What was she thinking of, lying sprawled out beneath him, like some wanton? Vulnerability surged through her, her pulse fluttering insanely. ‘I need to sit up,’ she muttered. ‘And you’re on my skirts!’

He looked down to the point where his knees trapped the fabric of her gown, mouth twitching with humour at the nun’s temerity, her constant spurning of any help from him. Surely she should be pleased that he had stayed? Ignoring her, he clamped strong fingers around her elbow.

‘I can do it myself!’ she hissed at him, jerking irritably at his hold. But to no avail. He released her when she was sitting upright. Her vision wobbled dangerously, but she compelled herself to concentrate on the details in front of her: his horse, the bridge, the oxen waiting patiently.

‘What have you done with my grain?’ Raising her knees, she planted her boots flat on to the ground, scrabbling to stand, fighting the bubbling sickness in her stomach. ‘If you’ve done anything, you’ll...oh!’ Collapsing back, she clutched at her mouth. ‘I don’t...’

‘Take it easy,’ Guilhem said, pressing down on her shoulder. ‘Your grain is safe, stacked by the side of the bridge.’ In contrast to the maid’s hostile behaviour, her collarbone was fragile, bird-like against his palm. He had a sudden urge to unwind the cumbersome fabric of her veil, her wimple, and trace the line of bone into the dip of her throat. He frowned, rising swiftly and strode over to his horse, extracting a leather water bottle from the saddlebags.

‘Here.’ Pulling the cork stopper as he walked back, he held the bottle out to Alinor.

Reaching upwards, she was shocked to see that her hand was shaking. Inadvertently, her fingertips jogged against his wrist, muscled and sinewy, and she snatched her hand away, horrified at the flare of sensation arcing straight to the pit of her belly. Hell’s teeth, the Prince must have really punched her hard to make feel so strange!

‘Take it!’ he insisted, gruffly. ‘Stop acting as if I’m about to poison you!’

She glared at the firm, tanned fingers holding the bottle out to her, then reached up to grab the flagon quickly, to avoid all touch. He raised his eyebrows at her desperate movement, but said nothing. She took a sip, relishing the cool water slipping down her throat, quelling the unstable feeling of nausea in her belly.

‘Thank you,’ she said, giving the bottle back. Tilting her head on one side, the fawn linen of her veil draping across one shoulder, she swept the empty clearing with a wide-eyed, luminous glance. ‘Where have all the soldiers gone?’ And him, she wanted to add. Prince Edward, the thug who had punched her.

‘They carried on.’ The knight stood over her, his expression stern, implacable, long legs planted wide, arms crossed over his chest. His calf-leather boots were scuffed, well worn. The woollen trousers that clung to his knees and the lower half of his thighs emphasised the bulky, contoured muscle of his legs. Pinioned beneath his blue gaze, Alinor drew a deep shuddery breath. She hated the way his sheer size made her feel self-conscious, her outer layers peeled away: a quaking shadow of her former self.

‘Then why didn’t you go with them?’ She switched her eyes away from him abruptly, a flag of colour staining her cheeks, annoyed at her reaction. Having lived with the unwanted advances of her stepbrother in the last few years, not to mention the harsh callousness of her father for all of her life, she prided herself on being able to ignore or dismiss most men. They were dispensable, as was this man. She frowned intently at a silver-backed beetle crawling slowly across the coppery leaves on the ground.

‘You were unconscious. It wasn’t right to leave you alone.’

The note of care in his voice startled her. ‘Well, I’m fully conscious now,’ Alinor replied with finality. She fiddled with the plaited strings of her girdle, her leather scabbard. ‘So you can go.’

Laughter blossomed in Guilhem’s chest. Her outright repulsion of him was so blunt, so churlish. ‘I could,’ he replied, infuriatingly, his eyes twinkling. The chit made him curious, keen to linger; she was feisty and obdurate, and not at all grateful for the fact that he had elected to stay and make sure she was safe.

‘Go then!’ she snapped as he continued to stand beside her. ‘I’m fine, can’t you see that? I’m sure your Prince Edward would have something to say about you wasting time over me.’ Shuffling her legs impatiently, Alinor tried to ignore the chill creeping in from the wet leaves on the ground, through her skirts, her silk hose.

‘He’s already said it,’ Guilhem replied. ‘And he’s your Prince as well. You would do well to show him a little more respect. He is in charge of the country now that his father King Henry has been taken prisoner.’

Alinor flinched, pursing her lips. Tipping up her neat, round chin, she flicked her eyes briefly across his lean, impassive face, regretting her runaway tongue. ‘Well, he certainly didn’t act like a Prince!’ Defiantly, she probed the pulpy bruise on the side of her cheek as if to emphasise her point. Throwing her knees to one side, she clambered messily on to all fours, struggling to her feet, clamping her weak arm to her side. Her head swam, shifting unsteadily, iridescent points of light bobbing before her eyes. The knight seized her and, to her dismay, she clung to him, gripping tightly for support as she swayed, fighting for balance.

He pulled her towards him, manacling her wrists. His face loomed close to hers. ‘And you, chit, do not act like a nun. So I would be careful if I were you.’

Her heart quailed beneath the questioning look in his eyes, the suspicion held in those glittering depths. Eyes like the sea. His eyelashes were black and long, almost touching his high cheekbones, silky threads splayed out across tanned skin. Yanking away, Alinor forced herself to breath evenly, making a great play of adjusting her linen veil around her shoulders.

A shout caused them both to look across to the bridge and she sagged with relief. Her scattered senses gathered, her mind clearing, focusing on the need to pull away from this man. There was Ralph, grinning, one arm raised in greeting as he plodded towards them carrying a piece of wood, and what looked like a hessian sack of tools. Thank God.

‘That’s him!’ she almost shouted at the knight beside her. ‘That’s Ralph!’ In her eagerness to reach the lad she charged past Guilhem, jogging her elbow into his forearm.

He watched her go, her step light and purposeful across the grass, flowing skirts dragging brindled leaves in her wake. He smiled softly; why, she had practically shoved him out of the way in her eagerness to reach the boy. A maid half his size, who barely reached his shoulder! She couldn’t wait to be rid of him! He should have been annoyed, furious with her for her lack of courtesy and respect, and yet, he was not. Curiosity chipped the mantle of his soul, dug beneath the impenetrable crust that had lain numb, dormant for all these months. Mounting up, he steered his horse towards the bridge, and up over it, his horse’s hooves clattering over the cobbles, glancing down briefly at the maid and the boy beside the broken cart. They didn’t look up and he had the distinct impression that the little nun was studiously ignoring him. Something else was going on here; it was a pity he wouldn’t be around to find out what it was. Kicking his heels into the destrier’s flanks, he rode off without a backwards glance.

Chapter Three

Layers of mist veiled the huge, creamy moon: a harvest moon, full and orange, inching upwards above the horizon. Brilliant stars pinpricked the dimming sky. The chapel bell attached to Odstock Priory tolled slowly for the last service of the day, sweet, melancholy notes ringing out across the flat, undulating land, the occasional screech of an owl disrupting the regular chimes. Crosses swinging from their girdles, the nuns walked in single file, heads bowed, towards the chapel from the Priory; their fawn-coloured veils shone white in the moonlight.

Hidden in the shadows of the gatehouse, Alinor watched them, pale wraiths silent as ghosts, some hunched over with old age, others graceful with spines ramrod straight, gliding across the cobbled courtyard and into the light-filled chapel. At this hour, every windowsill, every niche in the stone walls held a flaming candle, shining on the pewter plate, the jewelled cross on the altar, on the nuns’ faces bent in prayer. Alinor knotted her fingers across her stomach. As an honorary lay sister, she had the choice as to whether she would join them or not; tonight, she would not. As the last nun stepped over the chapel threshold and the great arched door closed against the night, Alinor darted out, skipping across to the main Priory: three double-height rectangular buildings constructed from limestone blocks, arranged around cloisters and an inner courtyard garden. Climbing the wooden steps, she pushed open the iron-riveted door which led directly on to the first-floor hall, open to the roof rafters.

Pausing, she tried to still her quickened breath, the sound from her lungs roaring in her ears. Her keen eye absorbed the sparse, familiar details: glossy elm floorboards, gilded by the light from a single candle burning on an oak coffer; a fire smoking fitfully in the wide, brick-lined fireplace. A long trestle table and benches dominated the hall; this was where the nuns ate and any guests that might join them. But now, the hall was completely empty. All was quiet.

Extracting two lumpy bags of gold coins from her satchel, Alinor dumped them on the carved-oak coffer beside the door, the money earned today from the sale of the nuns’ wheat. After her unwanted encounter with the Prince and his soldiers this morning, the remainder of the day had passed in a blur; she could scarcely remember the noise and bustle of the market, the bartering, of which Ralph had done the most. She had stood by and watched, her body shocked and reeling, her mind constantly playing the moment when a pair of powerful hands had grabbed at her waist and thrown her up against a hard, unyielding torso. The image taunted her, dragged on her senses. She had been useless at the market, no help at all.

Seizing a rush torch from an iron bracket, Alinor held the blazing twigs aloft as she crossed the hall diagonally, moving through a narrow arch in the far corner, twisting down a spiral staircase. She entered the storeroom below, full of earthenware pots, casks, sacks of flour, wriggling carefully through the clumsy towers of hessian bags, the stacked barrels, to reach another door that squeaked on its hinges as she dragged it open. Holding the spitting, crackling light aloft, she descended the steep, rickety steps. None of the nuns came down here; the cellars were a labyrinth of hidden chambers and torturous passageways, formed from the vaulted foundations of the original, much smaller, Priory. Only the hefty barrels of mead which the sisters needed occasionally were situated in the first shallow-arched alcove, close by the bottom of the steps.

Alinor was going further, down into the basement. She knew her way around these cellars. As a frequent visitor to the Priory, the nuns had offered her space in the vaults to hang and store her herbs. Long stalks, tied with bristly twine, hung from iron hooks in the ceiling, crispy flower heads rasping at her veil, scattering seeds as she moved along the corridor, careful to keep the flickering, spitting torch away from the precious harvest above. The nuns’ offer had been a godsend; after her stepmother had ordered a whole roomful of her herbs to be destroyed, claiming they were ‘the work of the Devil’, Alinor had been desperate to find another place to keep them. Any place away from her stepmother’s prying eyes. The nuns, friends of her mother, and now her, had come to her rescue and she repaid them in kind, using her tinctures and ointments to heal them, as well as the many villagers who came to her for help.

‘Bianca?’ Alinor called out quietly, pausing in front of one of the wide shallow arches. ‘It’s me.’ Her whisper echoed eerily around the limestone walls, stone the colour of pale honey. A cobweb tickled her cheek; she brushed it away. There was a rustle, the sound of breathing, and then a voice.

‘Alinor?’

She peeked inside the chamber, thrusting the light inside. The girl, Bianca, sat huddled in a blanket on the flagstone floor, blinking rapidly with the unexpected surge of light. The silver embroidery on the hemline of her gown winked and glistened, the rich silk fabric rippling out around her.

Thrusting the burning torch into an iron bracket on the wall, Alinor knelt down beside the maid. ‘I’m so sorry I left you alone for so long,’ she said. ‘I had to go to the market today, for the nuns...but here, I brought you some food.’ Delving into her baggy leather satchel, she extracted the packages she had bought, placing them on the uneven stone floor. ‘I hope it’s enough.’

Bianca placed her hand on Alinor’s shoulder. The hanging pearls decorating the silver circlet on her tawny hair bobbed with the slight movement. ‘It’s more than enough...you’ve...oh, what happened to your face?’ Her blue eyes flared open in horror at the mottled bruising on Alinor’s cheek, the dried blood. ‘Did she work out what happened, your stepmother? What you did?’

‘No, no, I haven’t seen her,’ Alinor reassured her.

‘Then what happened to you?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Alinor mumbled, drawing her stiff linen veil forward, a self-conscious gesture, embarrassed by the girl’s concern. She had managed to rewrap her wimple on the way to the market, so the bloodstained cloth was hidden. But nothing could conceal the damage on her cheek. A pair of sparkling midnight eyes, a teasing smile, flashed across her vision and she bit down on her bottom lip, hard. Do not think of it, do not think of him, she ordered herself sternly.

‘Looks like it was a bit more than nothing,’ Bianca said, frowning critically at Alinor’s face. ‘You’ve risked your neck for me already; please don’t take any more chances.’ She shifted her position on the blanket, her blue-silk overdress sliding over her knees. Hundreds of tiny seed pearls had been stitched into the curved neckline, matching the intricacy of the maid’s circlet and fine silk veil.

‘It wasn’t anything like that,’ Alinor said, untying the packages with brisk efficiency. ‘Ralph, you know, the lad from the village who went with me, and I, well, we ran into a bit of trouble on the way to market.’

‘Trouble?’

‘We crossed paths with Prince Edward and his entourage. And our cart had broken, so they couldn’t cross the bridge. Ralph went to fetch help and left me there.’ Her breathing quickened and she shook her head. ‘I was stupid, thinking I could brave it out against them. I should have run, hidden somewhere.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Bianca asked softly.

‘I thought they would destroy all the grain, all the nuns’ profits. But, thankfully, I held them off until the Prince arrived.’ She closed her eyes briefly, remembering. The thick arms folded about her slim waist, thumbs splaying against her spine, pulling her close. The mail-coat links pressed through her clothes, digging into her soft flesh. The way his muscular legs bumped against her toes, flailing uselessly above the ground. Blue, blue eyes, sparking fire. A shivery breath gripped her lungs, surging, alive. ‘And then one of the knights grabbed me and carried me off the bridge, out of the way.’ She grimaced, balling her fists defiantly in her lap. ‘I put up a good fight though. I bit him.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I bit his ear.’

‘Oh, Alinor!’ Bianca said, clapping her hands to her mouth. ‘So I suppose he walloped you for that?’

‘No, it was the Prince. I just kept on screaming.’ A delicate colour brushed her cheeks as she recalled her outrageous display. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What was I supposed to do? Go quietly?’

Bianca laughed, dipping her head. ‘Alinor, I have only known you a short while, but something tells me you would never go quietly. What you have done for me...your bravery; I’m sure I wouldn’t have the courage to do the same. You were lucky, though. The Prince has a fearsome reputation; he could have killed you.’

It’s not him I’m worried about. She shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with the strings on the packages. She couldn’t seem to undo them, her hands clumsy, muddled. ‘Then thank God he didn’t.’ Alinor smiled wanly, her fingers tangling in the knotted strings. Sweet Jesu, the thought of that man was affecting her even though he was nowhere near! What was the matter with her? She wasn’t ever likely to see him again.

‘Here, let me do it,’ Bianca offered. ‘I’m starving and you’re taking too long.’ She opened up the squares of muslin to reveal fresh rounds of bread, lumps of crumbling cheese, an apple. ‘Oh, you’ve brought me a feast!’ She bit into one of the bread rolls. ‘This bread tastes like Heaven! Thank you Alinor, thank you for everything.’

Alinor smiled at her enthusiasm, the girl’s good humour despite her desperate situation. Bianca had arrived at Alinor’s home with an escort of French knights, sent by Queen Eleanor, King Henry’s wife, in order to marry Alinor’s stepbrother Eustace. A marriage arranged by the Queen, with the Savoy family of Attalens in France, a marriage that could not be unarranged. Her stepmother disapproved of the match, violently disapproved, but how could she openly contest a queen’s edict? She wanted Eustace to marry Alinor, as Alinor was the sole inheritor of her father’s vast wealth, his many castles and estates. On her father’s death she would be a wealthy woman in her own right. And her stepmother would do anything for Eustace to have all that and, so it seemed, she would stop at nothing, nothing, to achieve that end.

‘Have you been able to find anyone to take me to the coast yet?’ Bianca widened her large blue eyes in question as she nibbled delicately at the cheese. ‘It was a shame your stepmother sent my escort away so quickly, otherwise they could have taken me back. And my poor maidservant as well, having to travel back with them!’

‘Wilhema wanted them all out of the way as quickly as possible. She didn’t want them to find out what she was planning for you,’ Alinor said. ‘But don’t worry, I have someone in mind to take you back to France, someone I can trust.’ Ralph, she thought to herself, or someone in his family. They would help. ‘Remember, you are supposed to be dead. Wilhelma truly believes that I did what she asked of me, that I poisoned you. If she, or one of her friends, should see you...’

‘It won’t happen; I can disguise myself.’ Bianca turned her mouth down ruefully. ‘I need to wear your lay sister’s clothes and possibly cut my hair, darken down the colour?’

‘Yes, all of those things. You cannot risk being recognised. But you must stay here for the moment; I promise, I won’t take long to ask my friend to take you home.’

‘I’m surprised you’re not offering to do it yourself,’ Bianca teased. ‘After all, you seem to demonstrate exceptional skill when it comes to dealing with potential attackers.’

Alinor laughed, touched her check self-consciously. ‘Don’t worry, he will be a proper escort.’

‘Just make sure he’s good looking,’ Bianca said. ‘That’s all I ask.’

Such a request seemed so idiotic in the face of the huge risks both girls were taking that they both dissolved into laughter, heads bobbing together in the flickering half-light.

* * *

Hiking up her skirts, Alinor scrambled on to the stone window ledge, angled deep into the infirmary wall. Standing, she reached for the ornate iron latch on the leaded window, pushing the casement open. Fresh air flooded the chamber, cutting through the fuggy, foetid air. The nuns’ hospital, a double-height building set apart from the Priory, held about twenty pallet beds, simply constructed and lifted a few inches from the flagstone floor by a block of wood at each end. Mattresses and pillowcases were stuffed with straw, which could easily be replaced; coarse linen sheets and a motley collection of woven blankets lay on top of each bed.

Only one of the beds was occupied at the moment. Sister Edith, one of the more elderly nuns, had come in a few days ago complaining of stomach pains, which had developed into vomiting and fever. Now she lay on her back in the bed, a motionless doll-like figure under a heap of blankets. She had stopped being sick, yet still she shivered, moaning occasionally. Alinor jumped down from the window ledge and moved over to her, dipping a flannel into a bowl of cool water beside the bed, and placing it gently across Edith’s forehead. She was worried about her; so worried that she had stayed the night at the convent, lying restlessly in the pallet bed next to her, alert and wakeful to Edith’s shallow breathing. She hadn’t even had time to visit Bianca today. She would go this evening, when there would be more sisters around to tend to Edith.

‘Any change?’ Maeve, the Prioress of Odstock, swept into the infirmary, flanked by two young novices. A tall, imposing woman, Maeve had a reputation for being strict, but fair. Alinor held a great deal of respect for her; the Prioress had held her mother in her arms as she had finally succumbed to the fever that had gripped her for days, and would help Alinor whenever she could. And in return, Alinor helped the nuns with her healing skills, learned from an early age at her mother’s knee; she even had her own bed at the Priory, which allowed her to come and go as she pleased.

Alinor tilted her head to one side. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what Maeve would say if she told her about the girl hidden in the cellars. But the Prioress was a stickler for rules; if she found out about the Queen’s wish for Bianca to marry Eustace, she would probably send the poor girl straight back to Alinor’s home and to her conniving stepmother. No, she couldn’t risk that. Helping Bianca leave the country was something she would have to do on her own, hopefully with Ralph’s help.

‘Have you put any ointment on that bruise yet?’ Maeve barked at her, her light-brown eyes swiftly assessing the patchy marks on Alinor’s cheek. The sparseness of her eyelashes made her facial features more prominent: a large, beak-like nose, the white expanse of lined forehead, shaved eyebrows.

‘Yes, yes, I have,’ Alinor reassured her. She had dabbed her cheek with foul-smelling unguent that very morning, when she had woken in the pallet bed next to the ailing nun.

Maeve peered at her critically. ‘It looks nasty. How did you say it happened again?’

‘I was stupid, I knocked it on one of the outposts of the cart, yesterday.’ She threw her a twisted smile. ‘As usual, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

Maeve smiled. ‘Oh, Alinor, as clumsy as your mother was.’ She clasped her bony fingers in front of her swinging cross. ‘But also as good at selling. Your mother also knew how to drive a hard bargain. Thank you for all that coin; it will certainly keep us through the winter.’

And to think I nearly lost it all, thought Alinor. The risks I took. A hollowness suddenly emptied her stomach, the washcloth tightening between her fingers, drips running down on to the woollen blanket.

‘You look pale, Alinor. Go and fetch yourself something to eat; there’s food out in the refectory. I’ll watch Edith for a while.’ Maeve eased the washcloth from Alinor’s fingers and settled herself on the three-legged stool next to Edith’s bed.

‘I need to pick one other plant which might help her,’ Alinor said.

‘Fine, but don’t leave the Priory at the moment. There have been reports of fighting between the royalists and the rebels nearby. I wouldn’t want you to become caught up in something like that.’

A surcoat of red and gold surged in her mind’s eye; she dashed the vivid memory away. ‘No, I won’t go home today. I wanted to see how Edith fares.’ And to make sure Bianca leaves safely, she thought. Besides, she had no wish to return home to face her stepmother. She was better off at the Priory.

* * *

During the morning, the cloud had thickened steadily; the day was sunless, overcast, with a fitful breeze. As Alinor walked through the arch in the ivy-clad wall to the vegetable gardens, leaves chased along the cobbled path before her, silver-backed, yellowing, as if tossed by an unseen hand. A gust of wind eddied around her skirts, blowing them sideways, but after being cooped in with Edith all morning, she relished the fresh air against her skin. From a line of billowing oaks to the north, a gaggle of black crows flew up, sharply, wings beating furiously against the powerful currents of air.

Eyes watering in the cool air, Alinor strode briskly, past the neat rows of root vegetables: the carrots, turnips and swedes ready to be lifted and stored for winter. Her herb plot lay to the rear of the gardens; here, she grew the flowers and plants that went to make up her tinctures and ointments. Leaning over, she plucked several leaves of feverfew, and some mint as well, for flavour, stuffing them in the linen pouch that hung from her girdle.

‘Alinor! Alinor!’ Her name, carried along on the brisk breeze. Someone was calling her! Turning abruptly, she glanced back at the Priory windows and then over to the infirmary. A drab white veil blew out from the window; one of the novices was waving at her, yelling her name. Oh, God, she thought, it must be Edith! Alinor sprinted back across the gardens, her slender legs carrying her through the inner courtyard of the Priory, past the cloisters and out through a small arched doorway on the southern side which would lead her back to the infirmary.

She stopped.

Her heart clenched, squeezed with fear.

Fingers searching wildly behind her, she scrabbled, clutched at the door, the doorframe, the surrounding stone arch; anything that would give her some support, some stability. No, no, no! It couldn’t be! Her inner voice screamed denial even as her eyes told her what was true. Breath surged in her lungs; she sagged back against the cold stone. Before her, clustered in front of the infirmary was a group of about thirty knights, dusty, dirty, bloodied. Some sat on the ground, propped up by others, obviously wounded; others lay flat out on makeshift stretchers, faces drawn and white, eyes closed. Several soldiers held the large-muscled warhorses in a group, the animals obviously nervous, pawing the ground, enormous eyes rolling.

At the centre of the mêlée stood Prince Edward, head bent in conversation with the Prioress.

And him.

The broad-shouldered knight who had carried her kicking and screaming from the bridge, with his eyes of midnight blue, his shock of tawny hair. He was there.

Chapter Four

Fear spiked her veins; she rocked slightly, wondering if she could sink back into the shadows without anyone noticing her. But before she had the chance, Maeve turned her head, brown eyes homing in on the figure in the archway. Bony, arthritic fingers beckoned imperiously, signalling to Alinor. Straightening her spine, Alinor blundered out into the open, wobbling legs scarcely carrying her across the cropped wispy grass. These men wouldn’t recognise her, surely; even now, the other sisters were coming out to help, streaming out from the cloisters, from the chapel, all dressed in exactly the same way as Alinor. She would blend in, hidden amongst the rest of the nuns.

Edging her way through the soldiers, she reached Maeve. Prince Edward was already moving amongst his men, shouting orders, commanding the more able knights to carry the injured soldiers into the infirmary. Of the other knight, there was no immediate sign; Alinor kept her eyes pinned to Maeve, unwilling to twist her head and find him right behind her. Her muscles hummed with the strain of keeping herself held tightly in, wanting to remain unnoticed, slipping through this crowd of soldiers like a ghost.

‘Come, let us help these soldiers before they bleed to death on our doorstep,’ Maeve ordered the nuns who clustered about her. Her keen gaze whipped about, directing the sisters to the men who needed the most help, making sure her commands were carried out. As Alinor moved to follow out Maeve’s orders, her head lowered, the Prioress caught her arm. ‘Alinor, wait, go into the infirmary and ask one of the novices to help you carry Sister Edith up to the bed on the second floor; I can’t have her downstairs with all these men.’

Alinor nodded gratefully, almost running along the path towards the infirmary, desperate to be out of the immediate vicinity of the soldiers. She grasped at the sturdy handle of the infirmary door, about to push it open.

‘Alinor? Is that your name?

She gripped the iron ring, knuckles frozen.

‘Can I help at all?’

The male voice was low, well-modulated, familiar. Shock scurried through her. He must have overheard her name when Maeve talked to her. She bristled at his use of it, the impertinence; her name sounded like treachery on his lips, a betrayal.

‘Er...no, it’s—it’s quite all right,’ she stuttered out, steadfastly facing the door, breath caught in her throat like a stone.

‘You can turn around, you know,’ the voice said. ‘I know it’s you.’

Sweat pricked her palm. A shudder rippled through her slender frame. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied haughtily. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

He leaned over her. ‘You’re the screaming banshee from yesterday, aren’t you?’ he murmured.

The hot push of breath tickled her linen veil, her ear. So close. Excitement whipped through her veins, a wild heat suffusing her flesh, turning her limbs to pulp. She glowered at the wooden planks of the door, the yellow-green lichen spotting across the weathered oak, resenting the physical response of her body towards him. Defiance ripped through her; she flipped around to face him, to the beautiful savagery of his face. ‘So what if I am? What are you going to do about it?’ Blood thrummed in her ears. She was frightened of him. That was it. Frightened of the trouble these men could cause.

Blue eyes sparkled over her, a generous grin lighting up his sculptured features. His bottom lip held a wide curve, a surprising softness in the hard angle of his jaw. ‘Nothing, as long as you don’t start screaming again. Or steal my sword.’ His eyes drifted over the mark on her cheek. ‘Still hurting?’

‘What do you think?’ she asked truculently, crossing her arms across her chest.

‘You’re remarkably badly behaved for a woman who has taken her vows.’ He ran one thumb along the underside of his sword belt, assessing her slowly. ‘And aggressive.’ He touched his ear, the one she had bitten, and she flushed, noticing the bluish bruise on his earlobe.

‘Then you’d better keep away from me,’ she warned, trying to inject an element of fierceness into her tone. ‘There’s no telling what I might do next.’ Turning smartly away from him, she pushed into the infirmary, the door thumping behind her. She paused in the gloom, senses skittered, her breath easing out slowly by degrees. She needed to calm herself. How dare he creep up behind her like that? His blatant masculinity, so close, had pushed her mind from her task. If she didn’t pay heed, the soldiers would be in here before she had managed to move Edith.

The infirmary was deserted. All the novices must have run out to help with the injured soldiers. Darting over to Edith’s bed, she quickly evaluated the frail woman beneath the bedclothes. The old nun had no spare flesh on her, just skin and bone, like a little bird. She would be able to carry her. ‘Let’s wrap you up, Edith,’ Alinor said gently. Bundling the bedsheets and blanket around the nun’s thin body, she eased her forearms beneath Edith’s hips, the other around her shoulders. The old nun moaned softly, her skin stretched like translucent parchment across her jutting cheekbones.

‘It’s all right, Edith...’ Alinor whispered. ‘I’m going to move you upstairs.’

‘Let me carry her.’

Twisting around, Alinor scowled, then straightened up, irritated that she hadn’t heard the knight following her. She should have bolted the door! He stood beside her, his large frame spare and rugged, eyes shining like dark coals in the gloom. He smelled of woodsmoke, the tangy scent of horses. Her belly seemed to turn in on itself; a curious pang of longing dragged at the very core of her.

‘I can do it!’ she spat out, angry, intimidated. ‘We can fend for ourselves here. Go out and help your men, and stop bothering me!’ How jittery he made her feel! He prised away her customary self-confidence, this man whom she barely knew, throwing her off balance, burrowing beneath her practical level-headedness to make her nerves dance with an uncharacteristic anxiety.

Guilhem tilted his head on one side, his mouth twitching up in a half-smile. Her behaviour was extreme, argumentative and stubborn. She reminded him of his sister: the same wayward truculence, the same self-reliance, wanting to do everything herself and fully believing that she could do so. The flash of defiance in that beautiful face, the hostile tilt of her pert little nose. He folded his arms slowly across his chest. ‘Go on then.’ Challenge sparkled in his eyes.

Ignoring him, she bent over Edith again, attempting to hoist the frail body from the bed, praying that her weak arm wouldn’t let her down now, not here, not in front of this man. The ligaments in her spine gripped and stretched; her stomach clenched tightly. Sweat prickled on her brow, but Edith didn’t budge.

‘Out of my way.’ The big man moved in beside her impatiently, shoving at her with a swift nudge of his hip, his expression grim. Alinor tottered backwards, knocking into a stool, scowling furiously as he lifted Edith carefully from the bed, wrapped tightly in a heap of linens and blankets. Only the nun’s poor, bald head peeked out from the top of the blanket.

‘Where do I take her?’

‘I would have done it!’ she protested limply. ‘You didn’t give me enough time!’

Guilhem glanced at the main door, his mouth fixing into a firm, impenetrable line. ‘The other soldiers are being carried in now, so I suggest you lead me in the right direction or this old lady is going to have more of a shock than she deserves.’

He made her sound like a spoiled brat, thinking only of herself! ‘This way,’ Alinor bit out, fuming, swishing her skirts around with a brisk movement. She led him to a curving alcove set in the infirmary wall, indicating the uneven stone steps winding upwards from a central pillar. Daylight flooded down from a narrow, arched window set halfway up the stairwell.

‘It leads up to the second floor; there’s a small bedchamber up there.’

He ducked his head beneath the low lintel, powerful legs ascending the stairs easily, Edith’s head lolling against his thick upper arm, white skin pallid against silvery chainmail. Alinor’s breath caught in her throat; is this how he had carried her, after the Prince had hit her, senseless, unknowing, his hands clasped intimately about her body? Briefly, she closed her eyes in shame.

Kneeling on the bare floorboards, the knight laid Edith down on the pallet bed, adjusting the bedclothes so that they covered her bare feet. As he rose, his hair almost touched the serried rafters of the ceiling. Alinor hovered in the entrance to the stairwell, lips set in a mutinous line, rebellion coursing through her body. What was it about this man that made her behave so badly?

She jerked out of the way as he approached the stairs, whisking her skirts away dramatically to avoid all contact with him. ‘I suppose I should say thank you,’ Alinor bit out, grudgingly. ‘But I could have carried her.’

‘My God, you never give up, do you?’ he said, the toe of his boot knocking against her slipper by mistake. ‘It’s fortunate that you decided to give yourself to Christ, because I can’t imagine any man being able to deal with you. Your father must have blessed the day he sent you to the nunnery!’

Sadness whipped through her, sudden, violent. Her eyelashes dipped fractionally. ‘My father cursed the day I was born,’ she blurted out suddenly, her voice bitter. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

Guilhem thrust one hand through his tousled hair, the colour of rain-soaked wheat. ‘And for that I am sorry,’ he said, watching the raft of sorrow track across her pearly skin. He cupped her chin with one big hand, wanting to smooth the sadness away. His thumb swept across her cheek and, for a fraction of a moment, she stood there, savouring the sweet caress. The temptation to turn her head, to press her lips into the warm skin of his hand shot through her; her lashes fluttered downwards, momentarily. Her flesh hummed, treacherous.

What was she doing? Had she truly taken leave of her senses?

‘No,’ Alinor stuttered out. ‘I must go!’

She whipped away from him then, plunging down into the darkness of the stairwell, hand pressed tight to the spot where he had touched her, tears stinging her eyes.

* * *

The day slipped quietly into evening. Outside the tall infirmary windows, the sun sank, descending into a riot of luminous pinks and golds that streaked the darkening sky. Inside, the infirmary blazed with light: candles flickered and jumped in stone niches, rush torches had been slung into every iron bracket around the walls, revealing every lump and crack in the uneven plaster. A huge fire burned at one end of the chamber. Badly wounded soldiers filled the beds, heaped under linens and coarse woollen blankets, some shivering, some unconscious. Others rested on piles of straw near the fire, conversing in muted tones, or simply staring into space, eyes blank.

‘We were fortunate to find this place.’ Edward sighed, stretching his legs out towards the hearth, crossing his leather boots at the ankles. He brushed at a scuff of earth across his fawn-coloured legging. On a stone mantel, above the hearth, a gold cross glittered, set with pearls.

Sprawled in the oak chair, Guilhem flexed his fingers around the scrolled end of the armrest, the intricate wood carving knobbly beneath his thumb as he surveyed the nuns bustling around the men, amazed at the stoicism, the practised efficiency with which they worked. The sisters moved about gracefully, never hurrying, stiff linen veils like angel wings as they bandaged up bloody limbs and stitched up wounds with fine needles and sheep’s-gut thread. They never baulked at the enormity of the task; none of them had fainted, or turned squeamishly away at the sight of an ugly wound. As his eyes drifted across the space, he knew who he was searching for. The little nun with emerald eyes like limpid pools, whose tough and hostile manner intrigued him. He had seen the dip of her eyelashes as he had cupped her face, the slight parting of her lips, the faintest release of her breath at his brief touch. And yet here she was, trapped behind the veil, never to know of a man’s desire. His loins gripped.

‘Yes, we were lucky,’ he agreed finally, turning his attention back to Edward. What a senseless waste the day had been. They had met some of Simon de Montfort’s rebels on their way to Knighton. Forced to fight, there had been no winners, no losers; after that first terrifying skirmish, each side had slunk away to nurse their wounds, to recover. He accepted that Edward wanted to extract his father, the King, from the rebels, but at what cost? How many more men would they have to lose before they achieved such an aim?

‘You should ask one of the sisters to look at your injury,’ Edward said, his eyes swivelling to the rip in Guilhem’s tunic.

‘It’s nothing, just a scratch,’ he replied. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’

‘Here, you, come over here!’ Edward gestured towards a sister who carried a bowl of steaming water towards one of the beds. A sister with a large bruise on one cheek. The nun stopped and stared over at Edward with a haughty expression, clear, intelligent eyes mocking his command, the arrogant snapping of his fingers. ‘Yes, you!’ Edward demanded. ‘Bring that bowl of water and come over here.’

Guilhem’s breath quickened as she approached. Alinor. ‘God, Edward, will you leave it? That one would rather kill me, than cure me. It’s her, the nun from the bridge yesterday. Don’t you recognise her?’

Edward narrowed his eyes. ‘So it is. The squalling termagant. I’m sure she’ll do as she’s told after what happened.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Guilhem said. But his heart stirred in anticipation of her approach.

Alinor stopped by the chairs, setting the bowl of water down on an elm side table with deliberate slowness. Straightening, she bowed her head in deference to the Prince. ‘How may I help you, my lord?’

‘Guilhem has a wound that needs looking at.’ Edward tilted his head towards the man sitting next to him. ‘You need to sort it out.’ He yawned, turning away, uninterested.

* * *

Guilhem. So that was his name. Unusual, reminiscent of a calmness, a serenity, both qualities in which this knight seemed wholly lacking. Shadows carved out the hollows beneath his cheekbones, emphasising their prominence; blond stubble glinted on his chin, giving him a dangerous, devilish appearance. Breath shuddered in her throat, her belly plummeting. The skin on her face still smarted from his earlier touch. What was the matter with her? Men did not normally affect her like this: her father, her stepbrother, the various knights who visited her father’s estates—they were all the same, weren’t they? Either autocratic and boorish, or weak-willed and incompetent; sometimes all of those things. Her tongue wallowed like padded wool in her mouth, muffling words, stifling her speech. A wave of fluctuating uncertainty crashed over her; how did this man, this stranger, manage to burrow beneath her customary self-confidence and make her behave with such uncharacteristic vulnerability?

‘I’ll fetch one of the other nuns,’ Alinor stuttered out, lamely. ‘I need to finish stitching up the soldier over there.’ She indicated the bed nearest the fire.

Edward’s arm snaked out, seizing her wrist. ‘I want you to do this. You will do it.’ His voice was savage, his fingers grinding into the fine bones on her forearm. Releasing her, he slumped back into his seat, closing his eyes.

Guilhem caught her eye. ‘Be very careful, maid,’ he murmured. ‘Others are not so lenient as I.’

Alinor scrubbed furiously at the red marks on her wrist, hating Edward, hating the man who sat before her. Uncouth barbarians, the whole lot of them! Used to fighting and killing their way to victory, uncaring who or what stood in their way. But knowing this fact, knowing what these men were, would not help her out of her current predicament. Aware that Guilhem studied her closely, she drew on every last drop of her courage, drawing her spine up into a rigid, inflexible line.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Where is it?’ she asked, managing to make her tone bossy and defiant.

Guilhem frowned, uncomprehending. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Where is the wound?’ she hissed back at him, churlish.

In response, he sat forward abruptly, hauling his scarlet tunic over his head, followed by the heavy chainmail hauberk, and threw them into a glittering jumble on to the floor. Beneath his chainmail he wore a white linen shirt, slashed open at the neck, the ties loose, undone.

‘Here,’ he said, pointing to a bloody stain on the white cloth. His tousled hair glimmered in the firelight, tawny, golden. A delicious scent lifted from his skin, like woodsmoke, musky and dark. Sensual.

‘You need to take your shirt off,’ Alinor barked at him, her voice strangely hoarse. ‘I can’t bandage it like that.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ Grasping the sagging hem, he dragged the shirt upwards, revealing his naked torso. In the firelight, his skin seemed polished, like molten gold. His upper body was lean, with no spare flesh, his neck corded and strong, rising up from the powerful jut of his collarbone. Panels of taut, honed muscle covered his chest, ridging his stomach across a narrow waist.

A savage, boiling heat shot through her, dancing with treacherous excitement. Immediately she ducked her head, hiding the flame of colour across her cheeks, muttering something about bandages. She scooted away across the flagstone floor, skirts slithering in her wake.

Edward rolled his head lazily along the chair-back, contemplating Alinor’s bobbing flight. ‘God, what is wrong with that chit? Why can’t she perform a simple task? Did you see her face? It’s as if she’s never seen a naked man before!’

Guilhem observed him with a slow grin. ‘She’s a nun, Edward, do you think it’s likely?’

Edward quirked one eyebrow upwards. ‘No, but I thought these religious women were immune to men; sworn themselves away from earthly pleasures and all that sort of thing.’ He rubbed his belly, suddenly bored with the subject. ‘God, I’m hungry. Do you think these good sisters are going to offer us anything to eat?’ Levering himself up from the chair, he turned to Guilhem. ‘I’ll leave you with her; don’t take any nonsense. I’m off to find some food.’

* * *

Plunging trembling hands into the wicker basket full of rolled-up bandages, Alinor chewed fractiously at the inner lining of her cheek. Sort yourself out, she told herself sternly. He’s a man, just a man, like your father and your stupid, mulish stepbrother. No different. Treat him exactly as you would treat Eustace and everything will be fine. Grabbing a pot of salve, balancing it unsteadily on top of the pile of bandages, she spun on her toes and marched back to the fire, plonking her wares down on the small table beside Guilhem’s chair. The other chair was empty; Edward had disappeared. She heaved a sigh of relief.

Guilhem’s keen eyes followed her movements, watched as she plunged a cloth into the bowl of steaming water, wringing it out. The drips shone in the firelight, falling like crystal tears.

‘Should I be worried?’ he murmured, as Alinor slapped the wet steaming cloth against the bleeding line of his wound, scrubbing vigorously.

‘Not at all,’ she replied brusquely. Bright flags of colour burned her cheeks, exaggerated by the leaping flames of the fire. A burning log fell sideways, sending up a shower of sparks. ‘I’m perfectly capable.’ But her fingers shook as she dipped them into foul-smelling unguent.

‘Capable, but maybe not very forgiving.’

‘Can you blame me? You carried me forcibly off that bridge. You wouldn’t listen when I told you I could carry Edith.’ Alinor shrugged her shoulders. ‘This may hurt.’ Pressing her palm to his shoulder, she smeared the thick paste across the wound. His bulging shoulder muscle moulded into her skin like warm marble: solid, strong. Her breath punched out, a short little gasp. She had tended to men before, certainly, but never a man like this, so...so beautiful. She smacked the earthenware pot of unguent down on the table with such violence that a faint crack appeared from base to top. Remember who he is: a knight, tough and uncompromising, without an ounce of softness in his body. But even as these thoughts ran through her mind, she knew she lied to herself. Beneath that harsh exterior was the man who had stayed by her side after Edward and his soldiers had left, the man who had carried Edith, with infinite gentleness, up the spiral staircase.

‘I listened when you told me your father cursed you the day you were born.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘Please, don’t speak of it. I meant nothing by it.’ The words gushed out of her, tripping over each other.

He watched the stricken expression slip across her face. ‘If you say so,’ he said. There was no conviction in his tone.

Wiping her hands briskly on a cloth, she unrolled a length of bandage. ‘You need to sit forward, with your arm held out,’ Alinor ordered, cursing her own outspokenness. He had goaded her into blurting such a thing aloud and now his eyes were on her, on her face, scorching, bold. Curious.

‘I thought all nuns had their heads shaved,’ he said suddenly. His gaze was pinned to a spot beside her ear.

‘Wh-what?’ Alinor paused, the bandage hanging in the air, a flimsy barrier between them. She reeled back as he touched a single lock of hair sneaking out from beneath her wimple. Pure, white-gold hair. Hell’s teeth! Why hadn’t she checked on her appearance before she came in here? Furiously, she tucked the offending hair back beneath her wimple.

‘Why isn’t your head shaved?’ Guilhem persisted. Her hair had been like silk: supple, vibrant. An unexpected longing gripped him; he wanted to rip the veil from her head, unwind that tightly wrapped wimple. What was the rest of her hair like? Was it long, curling, falling to her slender hips? He shook his head slightly, ridding himself of the tempting thought. He needed to stop indulging in these idle fantasies; he was intrigued, that was all.

‘Stretch your arm out.’ Impatient to finish the task, to run away from his probing questions, Alinor’s voice was terse, strained. Dutifully, he extended his arm and she began to wrap the cloth around, beneath his armpit, over his shoulder, round and round.

‘Why not?’ Guilhem asked again.

‘I choose not to.’

‘And your God gives you that choice, does he? He seems particularly lenient.’

‘He is.’ She lowered her gaze to his shoulder, pretending to concentrate on finishing the task. Why was he asking so many questions?

‘You’re talking nonsense and you know it.’

Panic flashed across her delicate features. Ripping the end of the bandage into two halves, she tied it savagely into a knot. ‘Look, we do things differently in this country; you’re not used to our ways.’

He picked up his shirt, pulled it over his naked torso. ‘Religion works the same in both our countries; don’t try and fob me off. What are you hiding?’

‘Nothing,’ Alinor bit out. Apart from a poor, frightened girl in the cellars, but Bianca was none of his concern. ‘I’ve finished,’ she announced, swiftly gathering up the spare bandages, the unguent, clutching the bowl of water to her chest. The water slopped against her gown, splashing dark spots. ‘I suggest you get some rest, like your men.’ She glared pointedly at the curled bodies huddled in front of the fire, wrapped in their cloaks, her tone dismissive.

He tilted his chin, the brindled slash of his brow arching upwards. ‘And stop bothering you.’

‘And stop bothering me.’ Alinor turned her back on him, flouncing away.

* * *

She returned to the large table in the middle of the infirmary, popping the unused bandages back into the shallow wicker baskets, looking around the beds to see if anyone else needed her help. Every nerve-ending in her body seemed alert, highly strung, as if bracing themselves for some further onslaught; at any moment, she half-expected Guilhem to step beside her, asking more questions.

‘Everything all right over there?’ Maeve appeared at her side, tilting her head towards the fireplace. ‘I had to find the Prince something to eat, but he’s happy now; I’ve left him in the kitchens.’

‘Everything’s fine,’ Alinor reassured her. ‘I think most of them will sleep now.’

‘Do you want to fetch some food for him?’ She pointed at Guilhem, sprawled back in the chair, staring into the flames.

‘No, I do not,’ Alinor replied, scuffing at a mark on the floor with her leather boot. ‘I’m sorry to say this, but he’s not very pleasant. He’s doing everything in his power to annoy me.’ A bandage slipped from her grasp, unwinding down to the flagstones; she began to roll it up again, her movements precise and controlled, as if by performing the task perfectly she could take control of her thoughts and stop thinking about him.

‘The Prince told me to look after him. Apparently he’s his right-hand man, the Duc d’Attalens.’

Alinor jerked her head up, staring into Maeve’s pale, lined features. ‘Who?’

‘The Duc d’Attalens? I think I’ve pronounced his name correctly. Goodness, Alinor, you’ve become quite pale. Are you quite well?’

Alinor stared over at the man by the fire. Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens. Bianca’s brother.

Chapter Five

How was it even remotely possible that the maid who huddled in the darkened cellar was related to such an inconsiderate oaf? Muttering something about fetching some food from the kitchens, Alinor stepped slowly towards the door, resisting the temptation to run out at full speed.

Grabbing a lighted torch, she plunged out into the night, striding purposefully towards the storehouse, the narrow doorway in the corner, the constricting stairs. Racing along the cellar corridor, her heart thudded half in terror, half in excitement. Bianca’s brother was here! If that was the case, then the girl’s predicament was solved; Guilhem could cross the Channel with her and escort her home. Who better, who safer, to take her than her own brother?

Bianca had been asleep, rolled up on the flagstones in the blanket. Now, blinking in the spitting light of the torch, she sat up, her loose hair cascading into her lap. ‘What in Heaven’s name are you gabbling on about, Alinor?’ She rounded her eyes in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean, ‘he’s here’?’

‘Your brother,’ Alinor gasped out. ‘It’s your brother, Guilhem! Upstairs!’

Bianca frowned. ‘No, you must be mistaken. Guilhem isn’t in this country. He’s fighting in France, in Gascony with Prince Edward. ‘

Alinor forced herself to calm down, to slow her racing blood. Slinging the torch into an iron bracket, she took Bianca’s slim hands between her own. ‘Bianca, believe me, or at least, believe the Prioress who told me. Guilhem is sitting in our infirmary before the fire, with a wound to his shoulder.’

Bianca arched one eyebrow, her expression sceptical. ‘What does he look like, then?’ Her tone was challenging, brimming with disbelief.

‘Look like? Well, he’s...tall and well built.’ Sensation licked over her, warm, treacherous. ‘And...and his hair is exactly the same colour as yours...a tawny colour. His eyes are blue, a deep, deep blue, with long black eyelashes.’ Alinor chewed on a nail. ‘And he asks too many questions for my liking. He’s too interested, too curious.’

‘Oh, sweet Heaven.’ A pallid greyness washed Bianca’s face. ‘He’s really there, isn’t he?’

‘He is.’ This was not the reaction Alinor had been expecting from Bianca. Why wasn’t she pleased? ‘What’s the matter? I thought you’d be so happy to find out that he was here...’

‘You haven’t told him about me, have you?’ Bianca plucked at Alinor’s sleeve, openly agitated.

‘Of course not,’ Alinor replied promptly. ‘But don’t you see, Bianca, he’s the solution to our problem; he can take you across the Channel and take you home.’

Bianca slumped to one side, her eyes wide and frightened. ‘Guilhem is the last person I want to see. He cannot know I am here. He would make me go back. He would make me go back to Eustace and force me to marry him.’

‘Surely he wouldn’t do that, if he knew what my stepmother tried to do.’

‘He wouldn’t believe me, or us. He would say we’re making it up, that we were being hysterical.’

‘Oh, I’m sure we—’

‘Alinor, stop it!’ Bianca’s voice was sharp, rattling out on a thread of anxiety. ‘My mother told me that it was Guilhem who finally convinced her that marriage to Eustace was the best thing for me. With our father gone, she needed his approval, despite my own misgivings. Do you think I wanted to leave my home? I never wanted to come to England!’ She sobbed, burying her face into her palms. ‘I saw the letter Guilhem wrote to our mother from Gascony, giving his consent.’ She hunched her shoulders forward into her chest. ‘My mother was flattered that the Queen had arranged it for us, it was seen as a “good” marriage, uniting France with England, strengthening the ties between the two countries. I never wanted it. But what choice did I have when my brother had written the letter insisting that I go through with it?’

‘Oh, Bianca, I’m so sorry,’ Alinor whispered, dropping down beside her, hugging her. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ The cellar air clung to her skin, a slick of chill perspiration.

Bianca lifted her face. Tears tracked down her wan cheeks, glistening in the torchlight. ‘I’m sorry, Alinor, you’ll have to think of something else. Someone else. There is no way I am going anywhere with Guilhem.’

* * *

Something was banging away incessantly inside his head. Loud. Insistent. Hitching up into a seated position, Guilhem scrubbed at his face, trying to rub away the last vestiges of sleep, to clear the fog from his brain, and squinted towards the narrow window. Outside, it was still dark; the clanging noise continued. Throwing back the covers, he strode barefoot over to the window, linen undergarments clinging to his brawny thighs, and peered out into the blackness. The church bell tolling sonorously, summoning the nuns to early prayers. Veiled figures filed across the courtyard, heads bowed. Was she there, among them? His breath snagged. Alinor. She resented every last bit of his presence, and yet, the more hostile she was towards him, the more he was drawn to her. A woman who had taken her vows. An innocent. He should know better. And yet he couldn’t forget the tempting jut of her hip as she brushed past him in that voluminous sack of a gown, the silken perfection of her skin when he had touched her face yesterday. The images tormented him. His gaze ran back and forth along the line of pale-coloured veils and swinging rosaries, but he failed to spot her. Disappointment carved through him; he frowned at the odd sensation.

He threw himself back on to the bed, bouncing against the sweet-smelling sheets, still warm from the press of his body. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked and strained with the movement. It seemed that the nuns spared no expense when it came to treating their guests. Although the room was small and sparsely furnished, the mattress was stuffed with horsehair, covered with sheets of woven flax and topped with feather pillows and furs. He stretched his long legs to the end of the bed, relishing the silken touch of the linen against his muscled limbs. After all those months of relentless fighting alongside Edward in Gascony at the behest of the King of France, desperate to reclaim his lands from the English, and after those awful months in captivity, this was sheer luxury. It reminded him of his home: his mother, the lady of the manor, bustling about, firing off orders to the servants, making sure that everyone had everything they needed: food, warmth, a bed for the night. It reminded him of the happy, vibrant presence of his sister.

He closed his eyes, disquiet spiralling through him. After his release he had been reluctant to return home, the prospect of normal life jarring strongly with the ugly emotions coursing through him. He had wanted to fight, and fight hard, hoping to scour away the debilitating guilt that dragged him down like a lead-weighted cloak. He had known nothing of his mother’s plans for Bianca, although she claimed to have sent a message to him, which he had never received. By the time Guilhem had finally returned home to inform his mother he was travelling to England with Prince Edward, Bianca had already made the treacherous journey to England herself. He had been so taken aback, annoyed even, by the way his mother had so easily acquiesced to the Queen’s request. She had seen it as a wonderful match for her daughter. All he could do now was visit his sister and make sure that she was happy. He could do that at least.

* * *

‘Fetch the rest of the bowls, please,’ Alinor asked one of the novices, as she placed one dish after another along the vast length of the refectory table, the stack of earthenware teetering precariously against her chest. Her left arm ached incessantly today; she was having trouble carrying the crockery. Sunshine streamed down from the high windows, gleaming against the pewter mugs and spoons, brightening the glossy wood of the table. Ornate candlesticks studded its length, bundles of wax set in cold, hard dribbles spilling out from around the unlit wicks.

‘How many?’ asked the young nun.

‘As many as you can find,’ Alinor said, reaching the end of the table. ‘We have to feed a lot of soldiers.’

‘Thank you, Alinor, for staying to help.’ Maeve emerged through a curtained opening in the corner of the refectory. ‘I’m not sure how we would have coped without your capable hands. It isn’t every day we receive such an influx of people.’

‘You would have managed without me, Maeve,’ Alinor assured her.

‘Well, I am grateful.’ Maeve narrowed her keen eyes, studying Alinor’s face. ‘But you look tired, my dear. Did you manage to sleep last night?’

‘Not much,’ Alinor replied truthfully. She had spent the night in the nuns’ dormitory, tossing and turning in a pallet bed, worrying about Bianca, chased by a pair of sparkling blue eyes through her fitful night. What if Guilhem should find out that Bianca was hiding right beneath them?

‘Ah, here they come now.’ The Prioress glanced up at the main door. Soldiers began to file in, slotting themselves along the rickety wooden benches. The sisters moved amongst them in pairs, one holding a vast tureen of honeyed porridge, whilst the other ladled out the cooked oats. Steam rose, mingling with the shafts of sunlight. The men talked in low voices, murmuring their thanks, keeping their eyes lowered respectfully. ‘At least it looks like they know how to behave themselves, thank the Lord,’ Maeve added.

Alinor’s heart sank as she spotted Guilhem, his tall, muscular frame covered by a close-fitting blue surcoat falling to mid-thigh, calf-length leather boots on his legs secured with criss-crossed laces. Beneath his surcoat, he wore a fine wool under-tunic, of which only the sleeves were visible. The material hugged his thick arms, emphasising the brawny curve of his biceps, the muscled sinew of his forearm. His hair shone like a bronze coin. Alinor swallowed hastily, turned away. ‘At least some of them do,’ she responded, waspishly.

Maeve noted the burn of colour sweep Alinor’s cheeks. ‘Has something happened?’ Her voice sharpened.

‘No, no,’ Alinor replied vehemently. She grimaced at the floor, blood racing through her veins. How to explain the relentless beat of her heart that skipped and lurched at the smallest glimpse of Guilhem?

‘I shouldn’t worry, my dear.’ Maeve placed one hand on Alinor’s shoulder, placating her. ‘They’re leaving this morning. The Prince spoke to me last night. He’s planning to stay at the Queen’s palace at Knighton for a couple of days’ rest and recuperation. It’s only a few miles north from here. Some of the men are in no condition to fight.’

‘Thank God.’ Alinor smoothed her hands down the front of her apron; her palms were sweating.

‘Alinor?’ Sister Beatrice scurried up to her, lugging an empty cauldron of porridge between her two plump hands. ‘You live at Claverstock, don’t you?’

‘Yes, you know I do.’ Alinor smiled at her. ‘Here, let me take that, it’s too heavy for you.’ She reached out for the cauldron, but Sister Beatrice shook her head, hanging on to the iron handles.

‘No, I’ll take it to the kitchens. You need to go and talk to him.’ She nodded significantly over to the refectory table, her veil gathering lumpily behind her neck.

‘Talk to whom?’ A cold wash of panic shot through Alinor’s veins. ‘Who is asking you about Claverstock?’ Her voice heightened, a shrill note.

‘Him, that one over there, the handsome one with the blue tunic. Sitting next to the Prince.’

‘What did you say to him?’ Alinor blurted out, words juddering.

Beatrice laughed. ‘Nothing really. He was asking if I knew the way to Claverstock, and I said I would ask you.’

‘You didn’t say that I lived there?’

‘No, no, of course not!’ Beatrice rounded her eyes at Alinor’s reaction. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked in a small voice, then clamped her lips together, a dull flush washing over her dumpy cheeks. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘No. Don’t worry.’ Alinor grasped the iron pot from the nun’s astounded hands. ‘I’ll take this now.’

‘But...’ Sister Beatrice’s bottom lip sagged down ‘...aren’t you going to talk to him?’

‘Later!’ Alinor turned away abruptly, heading for the refectory door, clasping the pot against her belly like a shield. Scampering down the wooden stairs, she walked swiftly along the open-sided cloister, the morning sun warming her left cheek. She cursed her own stupidity. How foolish she had been, sleeping the night away at the Priory. Why, in Heaven’s name, had she not returned home last night to warn her stepmother? As Bianca’s brother, Guilhem would naturally ask about Claverstock; it was where his sister was supposed to be, about to marry Alinor’s stepbrother! And if Guilhem failed to gain directions to Claverstock from her, then it wouldn’t be long before someone else told him.

Abandoning the porridge pot against the cloister wall, Alinor spun on her heel and began to run, linen veil flapping out. She had no time to change out of her nun’s garments; her only priority was to reach Claverstock before Guilhem did. Skin puckering with terror, her mind toiled frantically on a plan to leave the Priory as quickly and quietly as possible. The refectory was situated on the first floor of the west range; if Alinor cut through the storerooms on the ground floor, she could slip out towards the gatehouse unnoticed.

She almost made it.

A man came down the refectory stairs into the cloister to block her path. A blue surcoat clung to broad shoulders; silver embroidery winked and glittered in the sunlight. A slight breeze lifted strands of his hair, giving him a tousled look. Bright blue eyes, the colour of the sea, gleamed down at her as she skidded to a stop in front of him.

He folded his arms slowly across his chest, a human bulwark barricading her path. ‘Where are you going?’ Guilhem’s voice was stern, but friendly.

Alinor angled her neat head towards him. ‘Away from you,’ she muttered grumpily.

He smiled, ignoring her rudeness. ‘I think you can help me.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Listen, the sisters tell me you know the way to Claverstock. I have asked the Prioress to give you leave to show me and she has granted her permission.’

‘Oh, God, why?’ she blurted out, without thinking. She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to prevent further words from emerging. This whole situation was becoming worse and worse!

Guilhem laughed at her reaction. ‘Because I am a knight with Prince Edward and therefore she trusts me? And because I was under the mistaken impression that most nuns like to help people?’ he added scathingly. ‘And, unfortunately for me, it seems that you are the only person who knows the way.’ His voice held the hint of a question. ‘Believe me, if there were anyone else, I would pick them instead.’

Maeve appeared at the top of the refectory stairs, her tall reed-thin figure framed by the thick oak doorposts. ‘Ah, there you are.’ Her calm, melodic tones drifted down. ‘Can you take him, Alinor?’

She dipped her head slowly in agreement. The strength sapped from her limbs; a debilitating weakness creeping across her body. Halfway between her mouth and her lungs, her breath snared. A horrible feeling of entrapment engulfed her, a tangled net from which she could not escape.

‘Follow me,’ said Guilhem. ‘My horse is this way.’

* * *

A long open-fronted barn served as a makeshift stable at the Priory; a thatched roof tilted down to a low stone wall at the back, rough-cut posts supporting the roof at the front. Horses crammed into the shelter, rumps against rumps, wheeling their heads around as Guilhem and Alinor approached. The barn sat in shadow; thick dew daubed the long grass alongside, strings of diamonds in the limpid light.

Guilhem fetched his saddle and bridle from the storeroom and lowered them to the ground. Diving into the mass of horseflesh with the bridle swinging from his hand, he extracted his horse with ease, leading the glossy, black stallion out of the heaving, snorting mass.

‘Where’s yours?’ He fastened the bridle with deft fingers around the horse’s nose, settling the metal bit between the great yellow teeth, his eyebrow tipping upwards in question. The horse pawed at the cobbles with his great hooves, a hideous scraping sound, his forelocks feathered with an abundance of black hair. Alinor backed away, breath quickening in her lungs. Nausea trickled through her stomach, a faint queasiness. The fear hadn’t gone away, then. Maybe it never would. Unconsciously, she rubbed at her arm, the twisted flesh hiding beneath the long sleeve of her nun’s habit.

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