“You are the Lady Hester?” he demanded.

“How dare you come here?” Hester retorted. “Isn’t it enough that you have insulted me on my own land, without coming into my house to insult me here, too? Your very presence is intolerable to me, sir.”

“But my lady—” Maud tried to interrupt.

“No, Maud. I will not have this miscreant in my house. There is no hospitality here for such as he.”

“But he is—”

“I wouldn’t care if he were the king himself,” Hester interrupted. “After the way he treated me this afternoon, only an imbecile or an oaf would expect me to offer him hospitality. Which, sir, are you?”

His eyes locked with hers and seemed to pierce her. The whole courtyard appeared to hold its breath as the stranger replied.

“I am Guy, Lord of Abbascombe,” he said. “And you are my wife.”

Knight’s Move
Jennifer Landsbert

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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JENNIFER LANDSBERT

lives in Brussels with her husband and their two young sons. She worked as a journalist before becoming a mother, and is now well used to writing to the accompaniment of Teletubbies. She has always loved literature and history, so writing historical fiction is the perfect combination of the two, as well as the fulfillment of a lifelong ambition. Jennifer and her family enjoy exploring the Belgian countryside in search of settings for new novels.

Contents

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 One

‘H ey, you! YOU! Get off my land NOW!’ Hester yelled at the galloping horsemen, but the sharp March wind snatched at her words and carried them away, over the clifftops and out to sea.

The riders continued their game of chase, their huge hound leaping and cavorting, barking gleefully at the fun, as they tore across Hester’s freshly ploughed field.

‘Ruining everything,’ she raged as she marched towards them, her clogs sticking in the mud as she stomped through the thick, wet soil. Suddenly, one of them, a large, muscular man on a black steed, swooped round towards her, his thick, dark hair swept out behind him by the speed of his horse.

‘Get out of the way, woman,’ he shouted, as he thundered past her, his horse’s great hooves throwing up a cloud of muck, showering Hester from head to foot.

‘Ugh!’ she spat, furiously wiping the mud from her eyes. The outrage! This scruffy devil, an intruder on her land, destroying the weeks of hard labour she and her men had put into preparing the soil, and he was treating her as if she were the trespasser.

‘Who do you think you are?’ she yelled back.

This time he heard her. He reined in his horse hard, and turned to stare at her.

Hester saw the scar first, its deep, crescent shape puckering the skin from eyebrow to cheekbone. Then she noticed the black, menacing eyes glaring at her through the tousled locks of hair, which the wind had swept across his forehead. His lips, surrounded by thick stubble, sneered down at her.

‘You stupid wench!’ he shouted, as he approached. ‘You could have been trampled to death. If I hadn’t seen you in time, you’d be lying senseless in the mud by now. What the devil did you think you were doing?’

‘Trying to save the crop from your idiot games, you fool.’ The bold words tumbled from her mouth in spite of his terrifying appearance. Everything about him was dark: his horse, his hair, his eyes, even the leather of his coat and breeches. And no doubt his heart too, thought Hester. He’d kill me as soon as look at me.

But she refused to let fear master her. She was determined to get this wretch off her land and away from her people. Somehow she could always find the courage to face danger for their sakes.

Holding her head high, she fixed her eyes on him and felt the force of his glare burning into her. She delved deep into her reserves of courage and found the words: ‘I want you off this land before I—’ but her command was interrupted by the arrival of the other five riders.

‘Friend of yours?’ one of them called out with an insinuating smirk.

‘Hardly,’ returned the dark rider. ‘She seems to be ordering me off the land.’

There was a chorus of laughter around her as the six mounted men closed in.

‘Ordering you off the land? That’s rich,’ said another in an ugly tone and with a face as repellent as his friend’s.

Hester could see the swords hanging in scabbards by their sides, their handles glinting against the leather of their tunics, a warning in the thin, spring sunshine. But she must not let them see her fear. The more they tried to scare her, the braver she must appear.

She flung back the mud-spattered blonde curls which had escaped from her plaits. ‘Yes, I was ordering you off this land,’ she pronounced majestically, her turquoise eyes flashing. ‘You will leave Abbascombe immediately, without causing any further damage to the crops.’

But instead of obedience, her commands were met with howls of derisory laughter. How dared they? How dared they treat her, the Lady of Abbascombe, with such disrespect? Hester felt herself blushing crimson with fury, her face burning with indignation, and heard the men laughing even louder as they sat high on their steeds, looking down on her as if she were an entertainment.

‘You must forgive my friends’ mirth, my dear lady,’ the dark one said, his words heavy with scorn. ‘We have returned to England after many years overseas and the latest fashions are new to us, particularly this fashion among fine ladies for adorning their garments with mud.’

His friends threw their heads back, guffawing raucously at her expense. Of course, he was right that she was covered with mud—mostly his fault, she thought angrily. But she had to admit to herself that, with her hair awry, her workaday woollen skirts hitched up to allow her freedom of movement and wooden clogs on her feet, she wasn’t looking her most ladylike. Still, that was no excuse for his appalling rudeness.

‘At least this mud will wash off,’ Hester flung at him. ‘But no amount of cleaning would wash away your ill breeding, sir.’

His eyebrows arched with surprise, elongating the scar, which tugged threateningly at the corner of his eye. Time seemed to freeze as Hester waited for his reaction, regretting that her angry quip had been unwise. There was no laughter now; the only sound was the wind whipping off the sea. Suddenly she felt how vulnerable she was; alone here in the field with six armed strangers; rough-looking men, perhaps desperate outlaws who might do anything. She longed to look around, to scan the horizon for a friendly form, to gauge exactly how far from help she was, but did not dare show such a sign of weakness.

His eyes locked into her and Hester steeled herself to meet his fearsome gaze, clenching her fingernails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from shaking.

‘The vixen knows how to scratch,’ he said, addressing his friends, but glaring straight at her. The depth of his voice filled her with dread. Then he glanced round at his cronies, his dark eyebrows arched as if he were seeking their opinions. They looked at each other for a moment, Hester’s heart pounding with suspense. Then suddenly all six of them dissolved into laughter.

She stared at them. Being laughed at was almost worse than being scared. How dared they treat her with such insolence? How dared they not take her seriously?

‘Yes, I do know how to scratch,’ she shouted above their mirth, determined to gain the upper hand. ‘And if you don’t leave immediately, you’ll feel the pain of it.’ Hester was used to being obeyed and expected her words to command respect at the least. But instead this impudent rogue and his henchmen just laughed all the more. Hester stared at them, fuming with rage. She almost wished he had attacked her rather than laughing at her. At least then she could have defended herself with dignity, instead of standing here humiliated, the object of their scornful jokes.

‘I’m so scared,’ he mocked, fixing her again with his dark eyes, but this time they were twinkling with mirth. Beneath his tangled hair, his skin was dark too, tanned by long days in fierce sun, and his lips, twitching with amusement, showed a sensuous pleasure in teasing her. He was enjoying this, insulting her in front of his loutish companions. It was absolutely intolerable that a bunch of dirty, scruffy outlaws should speak to her in this way—and on her own land too.

‘Now, look here,’ Hester began, pulling herself up to her full height. ‘I will not stand for this—’

At that moment the huge hound came speeding up to the group, its long limbs moving so swiftly that, before Hester had seen it, it had already launched itself at her. She felt the shock of pain as a great thud on her chest knocked all the wind from her lungs and sent her flying backwards. The ground seemed to rise up and smash against the whole length of her helpless body, surrounding her in a blinding shower of mud and muck. She lay, too dazed to speak, the hound’s paws on her chest forbidding all movement, as it arched over her, growling menacingly, baring its fangs at her terrified face, saliva dribbling from its snarling jaws.

‘Get this hell-hound off me,’ she managed to wail. But the dark rider was already off his horse, his tall, powerful body striding towards her.

‘Amir!’ he called in a masterful tone. ‘Amir! Leave!’ Instantly the dog was off her and instead he was there, leaning over her, his broad chest blocking out the sky as he extended his hand to help her. She reached out to grasp it and realised she was trembling.

‘How dare you—how dare you—’ she stammered, sitting up quickly and doing her best to pull her heavy skirts free of the cloying mud.

‘My lady, allow me to help you to your feet,’ he said with infuriating mock gentility.

‘That blasted dog is dangerous,’ Hester scolded, in an attempt to regain her shattered dignity.

‘My dog is trained to protect me. She obviously saw you as a threat. Your manners are very aggressive for a woman.’

‘A lady,’ Hester snapped back, correcting him, as she placed her hand in his.

‘Oh, yes, of course, a lady. Please forgive me,’ he replied, as if humouring her. She saw amusement flicker across his mouth as he tried to suppress a smirk. ‘Now, what was it you were saying? That you wouldn’t stand for something?’

The arrogant wretch! Still making fun of her for the amusement of his cronies.

‘You’re too kind,’ Hester replied with a deceptive smile, curling her fingers around his hand. She was determined to make him regret having mocked her and now she saw the way to teach him a lesson, the only sort of lesson an ill-bred wretch like this would understand. She gripped his hand tightly as if to accept his offer of help, then with one swift movement she yanked her arm back with all her might, pulling his heavily muscled body off balance.

‘Serves you right!’ she shouted as he swayed towards the ground. But in his struggle to regain a foothold, he struck out with his strong arms, catching her on the shoulder and sending her slamming back into the mud a split second before he toppled after her.

Hester gasped, fighting for breath, trapped between the cold, squelching mud and his hot, heavy body, pressing against the full length of her, hard and muscular, pinning her to the ground. ‘Get off me, you brute.’

‘Brute, am I?’ he snarled in her ear, his breath sending shivers down her spine. She could feel the firm power of his muscles as his chest pressed against her breasts, and the musky scent of his body filled her senses, leaving her weak beneath him, her blood pulsing through her veins so violently, she was sure he must feel it too. ‘I came to help you up and you thank me with a mud-bath. And you call me ill bred,’ he rasped into her ear, the stubble of his chin and cheeks scratching painfully against her soft skin. ‘You have a lot to learn about manners, woman.’

‘Have you no idea how to treat a lady?’ she protested, fighting to free herself from his strong arms, which were locked around her like a cage.

‘I know all about treating women,’ he breathed against her cheek, the warmth of his lips seeming to burn into her as he whispered against her skin. ‘Would you like me to treat you?’

Her outrage brought sudden strength to Hester and in an instant she had pulled her arm free and lashed out at him, but he caught her hand just as it was about to strike his face. His grip was like iron as he shot a look down into her face.

‘Wildcat!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is this how you treat a returning hero?’

‘Hero?’ she spat back. Who did he think he was, this ill-mannered lout? ‘Behave like a gentleman and let go of my hand.’

‘Only if you promise not to use it against me,’ he said, heaving himself out of the mud and on to his feet.

‘I’ll use it against anyone who insults me.’

‘See what a gentleman I am?’ he asked, ignoring her remark and surprising Hester by offering his hand once again to help her up. She was beached in the mud, her skirts weighed down by clods of muck, but there was no way she would touch his loathsome hand again.

‘I’d rather lie all day in the mud,’ she scowled up at him as she struggled on to her hands and knees.

‘You’re obviously more used to it than I,’ he sneered.

Hester, speechless with indignation, could only watch as he whistled for his horse. The lithe creature trotted over immediately and stood completely still as his master sprang athletically into the saddle. However disgusting he was as a person, there was no denying he was a very fine rider, so at ease in the saddle that he and his horse seemed to move as one.

‘For the entertainment you have afforded us,’ he said without looking at her, flinging a handful of coins into the mud beside her. ‘Farewell, my lady wench,’ he shouted behind him as he sped away, followed by the other five, the hound bounding at his side.

‘How dare you insult me with your money? How dare you call me “wench”? How dare you insult the Lady of Abbascombe?’ she yelled after him, finding her voice again at last, but he was already far away. ‘Wretched, damned lout,’ she cursed to herself, venting her rage and frustration on the cold sea-wind. ‘He’d better not show his face here ever again. I’ll set every man in Abbascombe on to him if he does.’

As she struggled to her feet, trying to flick some of the mud off her skirt, Hester caught sight of William, her loyal farm bailiff, and a group of villagers running towards her. They were racing across the fields, eager to help; too late to be of use, but, alas, not too late to see their lady covered from head to foot in mud, as if she were a hog in its sty.

Hester would have preferred to be left to slink home in dirty but dignified solitude, but now there was no choice. She shook her skirts energetically and wiped at her face, although she suspected her efforts were covering her skin in more smears instead of cleaning it. Then she stood up straight to face her people, determined to behave nobly, however ignoble she might look.

‘My lady, are you all right? Did those men hurt you?’ asked William, all concern for her as ever.

‘I’m not hurt at all, just very muddy,’ Hester reassured him, putting her hand up to pat her plaits into place and finding a great lump of muck sticking to her hair.

‘We saw them from Clifftop Field and came as fast as we could.’

‘It’s all right, they’ve gone now. Never to return, I hope.’

‘They looked like crusaders, my lady,’ said Guthrum, a giant of a man, the largest and strongest in the village, who worked regularly in her fields, as well as cultivating his own plot of land.

‘You could well be right, Guthrum. They were certainly brutish enough.’

Crusaders returning from the Holy Land—yes, of course. The dark one had said they had been abroad for years. Now that the war was over and there were no more Saracens to kill, the adventurers were back. A group had passed through the village last year, demanding food and shelter. One had tried to seduce one of the village girls and there had been trouble. And now six more of them were riding roughshod over her land, destroying everything in their path. She’d had bitter experience of their type in the past—a long time ago, when the war began ten years earlier—but she hadn’t forgotten, could never forget the way that brute had treated her when he left for the war.

Suddenly all the old memories came flooding back, memories of that other crusader, long lost, thank God, no doubt dead and buried in some Saracen land years ago and good riddance. But the wound still throbbed with pain when memories touched it.

‘Right,’ she said to the men, shaking her head to try to clear the unwelcome thoughts and trying to ignore the muddy flecks which flew from her hair. ‘Let’s forget about them and finish off the sowing. A little more mud will make no difference to me. Eadric,’ she said, calling to Guthrum’s son, a trustworthy boy who was working with the men for the first time this year, sufficiently strong now to help with the heavy work of guiding the oxen and plough. ‘Eadric, those men dropped some coins. Why don’t you gather them up and share them amongst the children who are scaring the crows? Keep one for yourself.’

‘Oh, yes, my lady,’ said Eadric as he dashed off, his round face alight with the glee of being entrusted with an important task. Hester wouldn’t touch the money herself, but her people would be glad of a little extra.

These days there was a feeling of optimism in the village and on the smallholdings of Abbascombe, but the bad days were not so long ago that anyone could feel complacent. And some of those days had been very bad. They’d had hard years, which had tested them all, but they’d pulled through—well, most of them had. Wet summers and harsh winters, poor harvests and high taxes—taxes to pay for those blasted crusades, of course. War games for the lords, while the ladies stayed at home and struggled to keep body and soul together on the land.

Hester followed her workmen back up to Clifftop Field. This was the furthest field of Abbascombe Manor, on the very edge of the cliffs. It was Hester’s favourite, with the sea crashing on to the rocks hundreds of feet below, the waves beating a constant rhythm even on the balmiest of summer days.

While the men had been gone, the women and children had been doing good work scaring away the birds, throwing stones or whooping every time a crow or a gull swooped down to peck at the freshly sown corn.

‘Right, William, how are we getting on?’ Hester asked, businesslike now, though her cheek was still stinging from the scratches of that miscreant’s bristles, and her hands were not quite steady yet.

‘Not too bad, my lady. We’ll have to work late, but I reckon we’ll be able to finish tonight.’

‘We’ll have to. If Breda is right, the rains will start tomorrow and there’ll be no more ploughing after that.’ Breda, the wise woman, could almost always be trusted to predict the weather. On sleepless nights, Hester had sometimes watched unseen as the mysterious old woman limped out of the village before dawn to judge the formation of the clouds, the scent in the air, the way the frogs were swimming… Whatever it was she relied on for her information, it seemed to work.

According to Breda, the next week was to be filled with rain. Hester thought of the six riders and hoped they had a long journey ahead of them…a long, wet journey, very wet and cold, with no one foolish enough to offer them shelter, not even in a barn.

‘Good to get a bit of water on the new-sown corn though,’ William was saying as Hester’s thoughts veered back to the present.

She nodded her agreement. She and William always agreed. They had been working closely together ever since the old lord had died. She’d had her doubts about Benoc, the previous bailiff, who’d always had a tendency to callousness when dealing with the labourers. As soon as she had become sole mistress of Abbascombe, she had begun to watch him carefully and when she caught him selling her grain to corn factors in Wareham and pocketing the proceeds, she had given him his marching orders and appointed William.

Young and keen, William was a local boy who knew the manor inside out. He knew exactly which crop would grow best in which corner of the soil, the tiny variations from field to field, the way the sweep of the wind differed from one clifftop to another. Most importantly, she knew he loved Abbascombe almost as much as she did and that she could always trust him to do what was best for the manor.

Hester looked around at her beloved land, at the men guiding the plough through the ground behind the great, plodding oxen; at the furrows in their wake, like little waves on a fresh day at sea; at the seagulls soaring overhead. To her left, the women were sifting the grain, ready to start sowing on the freshly turned earth.

‘My lady, my lady,’ called Nona, one of Eadric’s little sisters, her whole body suffused with excitement, her brown plaits bouncing on her shoulders as she ran up to Hester. ‘I’ve got the corn dolly. Look! Here she is.’

‘Are you looking after her?’ asked Hester, stooping to greet the tiny bright-eyed child, whose clothes and clogs were caked with almost as much mud as her own. No one here minds my muddiness, Hester thought as she examined the corn dolly with Nona. I’m not ashamed of being covered in the soil of Abbascombe or of working in the fields with my people. Anyone who thinks that makes me less of a lady is a fool.

‘Do you know the story of the corn dolly?’ Hester asked.

Nona beamed a gap-toothed smile, ‘She goes to sleep in the winter, then she wakes up when we plant the corn.’

‘That’s right. Every summer we make a dolly from the last handful of corn that we cut, so that the spirit of the corn can rest all winter whilst it’s too cold out in the fields. Then in the spring we put the dolly back in Clifftop Field so that she can enjoy the good weather and make the corn grow, so that we can eat bread. Are you going to put her back in the earth?’

Nona nodded enthusiastically. ‘Let’s go and find a good place to put her,’ said Hester, taking the little girl’s hand and leading her across the field to the sowers.

No one knew how many corn dollies had been woven from Abbascombe corn, but it must have been a great number, Hester thought. And she would do all she could to ensure that there would be a great many more, so that Nona and her children, and her children’s children, could go on living and loving on this beautiful land.

All through that fine afternoon Hester worked alongside the villagers, helping to sift and sow, and scare the birds, even helping to lift the plough when it stuck on a boulder beneath the surface of the soil. This was her land and these were her people and there was nothing she would not do for them.

For them she would be brave and bold, though deep inside her, well hidden from view, there still shivered the tiny, timid twelve-year-old girl who had first set eyes on Abbascombe a decade ago. Her mind flitted back to that cold, winter’s day when she had first seen the manor, covered in snow. She saw again the old lord, who had seemed so frosty at first, but who, in the pinch of his own sorrows, had warmed to her, almost stilling that sharp, throbbing pain left by the death of her parents.

‘Right! That’s it!’ William shouted triumphantly as the last grain of corn slipped into the earth and the corn dolly was tucked into her warm, soil bed by Nona. ‘Well done, everyone. That was a hard day’s work well done.’

‘And now you can all come back for a good meal,’ Hester added.

They tramped towards the house, weary but pleased, with the night closing in quickly around them. They had worked a long day, urged on by the prediction of rain, so that by the time they reached the gates it was almost dark.

As soon as she entered the courtyard, Hester realised something was wrong. Something in the air sent warning signals shooting through her brain. Her eyes sped rapidly from wall to wall, her senses sharpened by some instinct deep inside her which whispered danger.

Two of the stable-lads emerged from the darkness, carrying torches, which they stuck into brackets on the wall to light their way. Their flames sent flickering orange light dancing through the shadows all around the courtyard. It was then that Hester saw the horses standing at the trough. Strange horses. Six of them. And then she saw him, his broad, strong back, dark like a shadow, turned towards her, his black, matted hair trailing onto his shoulders.

Just the sight of his back sent her heart leaping into her mouth and all the rage and fury of the afternoon filled every vein in her body, blotting out all around her as she stared at him through the half-light. His leather-clad shoulders looked even broader and more threatening than they had in the field. And he had an infuriatingly arrogant air as he stood there, oblivious to her, without so much as a by-your-leave, his long, leather-clad legs astride, his boots firmly planted in her courtyard, with such nonchalance they seemed to suggest that the very ground belonged to him.

Somewhere, as if from a long way off, she could hear her old maid, Maud, calling to her, ‘My lady! My lady!’ Hester dragged her eyes away from the intruder and saw that Maud was trotting towards her across the courtyard, as fast as her fat, old body would move. ‘My lady Hester!’

At the sound of her name, the dark rider wheeled round with a speed and agility which signalled the power of his body. Once again she was looking into his loathsome, churlish face. In the shadowy gloom, he appeared darker and craggier than before, the stubble of his beard seeming to veil his face in darkness.

His eyes flashed out of the shadows, and Hester felt herself flinch as they stirred in her some deep, best-forgotten memory. In an instant it was gone, as those eyes skimmed over her without pausing for recognition, as he scanned the group of workers returning from the field, passing from face to face, as if he were searching for someone in particular, for a set of familiar features.

‘Oh, my lady, you’ll never guess!’ Maud was panting as she reached Hester and began tugging at her sleeve. But at that moment Hester’s eyes locked with the eyes of the dark rider as he fixed her with a stare of disbelief, his lips parted and his face ablaze.

‘You!’ he breathed. The word was meant for himself. But time suddenly seemed to have stopped in the courtyard, as if everyone there sensed the tension between the two of them, and his deep whisper echoed in the silence.

Hester stared back, hostility furrowing her brow. She had nothing to fear now, surrounded by her own people in the courtyard of her own manor house. Now he would be taught to regret having treated the Lady of Abbascombe with such disrespect. All around her she could feel the stillness, as if every person there were waiting for her to give the order to attack.

She held the caitiff in her sight, meaning to give him a sense of her power this time.

‘You are the lady Hester?’ he demanded, splitting the silence with his commanding voice, his eyes searching her up and down in a most insulting manner.

‘How dare you come here?’ Hester retorted. ‘Isn’t it enough that you have insulted me on my own land, without coming into my house to insult me here too? Your very presence is intolerable to me, sir.’

‘But, my lady—’ Maud tried to interrupt.

‘No, Maud. I will not have this miscreant or his accomplices in my house. There is no hospitality here for such as he.’

‘But he is—’ Maud tried to continue.

‘I wouldn’t care if he were the king himself,’ Hester interrupted. ‘After the way he treated me this afternoon, only an imbecile or an oaf would expect me to offer him hospitality. Which, sir, are you?’

His eyes locked with hers and seemed to pierce into her, but she was determined to see him off.

‘Well, sir?’

The whole courtyard seemed to hold its breath as the stranger opened his lips to reply.

‘I am Guy, Lord of Abbascombe,’ he said. ‘And you are my wife.’

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Does she? Of course, I can’t judge.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Which?’ Hester repeated absent-mindedly.

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

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

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

‘But, my lady—’

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

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

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

‘I know, my lady, but—’

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

‘But—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But, my lady—’ Maud began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You despicable rat,’ she snapped.

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

‘How could I forget?’ Hester shot back.

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

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

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

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

‘Maud, come back immediately,’ Hester cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Pah!’ spat his opponent.

‘I should like to learn,’ Hester ventured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Edward was moving the intricately-carved chariot.

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

‘You’ve won!’ Hester exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hester nodded, but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is it as you remembered?’

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

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

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

‘I was a child when you left.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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