Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund
~ 12 ~
PERSPIRATIONMADEASTEADYTRAILdown Sir William Durham’s backbone beneath the well-fitted cotehardie that buttoned down the front and ended at his hips, falling over his breeches. The May afternoon wasn’t especially warm, but his body pulsed with an urgency to return home.
He drove his faithful stallion hard, and his three squires did likewise with their steeds. Of course, they had their arming swords as well as their large battle swords and could combat any peril they might encounter, even if they wore no armor. Nevertheless, Will didn’t want trouble.
At the reports of the uprisings in Essex, Will had cut short his tactical meetings in Dover on the coast. So had most of the other knights after they’d received word at midday that the royal official, Bampton in the Essex village of Brentwood, had been forced out of town on the tip of arrows.
The word was that Bampton had only been attempting to collect the unpaid poll taxes in Brentwood. The royal official had called a peaceable meeting of the surrounding villages. But tempers had escalated, and the men of the community had refused to cooperate. Eventually they’d chased Bampton off.
Will hadn’t necessarily been rankled by that particular news. It was the third poll tax within the past four years, and Will agreed—as treasonous as that might be—the newest levy to pay for the war against the French was both brutal and unfair. Some protest against the taxes was to be expected.
What he didn’t like was the unrest spreading across the southeast part of the country, making its way toward Kent, toward his home, toward his sons.
“The horses are needing respite and refreshment, sire,” one of the squires called as the Canterbury city walls rose steadily before them.
Will wanted to growl out his objection. His family estate was not far from Canterbury. They were almost there, and he wouldn’t relax until he rode through the gates and saw both Phillip and Robert alive and well.
However, he bit back his grumbling and instead gave a curt nod. He might be hardened from war, but he wasn’t so callous that he’d make the horses suffer needlessly. Therewith, he could use the opportunity to visit his sister and warn her of the turmoil. Already Canterbury had been stirred by the recent preaching of a priest by the name of John Ball. Ofttimes after Sunday mass, when people exited the service, Ball preached to them about the unfairness of being bondmen without rights and the need to go before the king and state their cause.
The Archbishop of Canterbury had imprisoned Ball for three months for such unlawful preaching but had been under increasing pressure from his parishioners to release the man. Whence last Will had ridden through Canterbury and the surrounding countryside, John Ball had been preaching again and inflaming the people, even though the archbishop had forbidden it.
Will’s gaze strayed to the field at his left flank, the dark loam, rich and thick, freshly plowed and tilled. Men, women, and children alike dotted the land, tunics tucked into belts revealing their bare feet. Men wore snug-fitting coifs and women broad-brimmed straw hats. From all appearances, they seemed peaceable enough. In fact, none of the laborers they’d passed during their journey had appeared to be revolting.
As they neared the walls of Canterbury, instead of entering through the Riding Gate, he steered them toward St. George’s. There, they passed by the cattle market where the stench of manure was strong and the bleats of weaning calves rose in the air.
He surveyed the double towers on either side of St. George’s palisade, noting they were manned. Even so, the gate was wide open, the town seemingly without a care. He could only shake his head at the idiocy of the city guard. The walls had been refortified in recent years to act as a defense against the French, not to make the city look pretty.
Didn’t they understand that because Canterbury was close to the coast as well as on the road to London, that if the French invaded, Canterbury would be one of the first towns attacked?
For that matter, any troublemaker could enter and wreak destruction.
With a shake of his head, Will guided his stallion through the gatehouse. Ahead, the fish market displayed strings of perch, trout, and salmon on open racks, and the odor of fish drying in the warm sun wafted toward them.
The market wasn’t as busy now that Lent was past, and they easily maneuvered through the carts and stands of husbandmen and tradesmen selling wares. The long whitewashed wattle and daub walls of St. Sepulchre Priory stood out amidst the other weathered, gray businesses that lined the narrow street. The convent wasn’t large, but it had been home to his younger sister for nigh ten years. She’d gone in as a girl of ten, a mere postulant. Last year, she’d finally taken her vows.
Will wasn’t allowed to visit oft, as the prioress kept the women under her charge to a strict regime. But because of his continued donations, the prioress allowed him some leniency.
He reined alongside the tall arched gate that led inside the convent grounds and rang the bell to alert the women they had visitors.
The nuns moved slowly, and it took long minutes ere he and his squires were admitted. While a lay sister brought water for their horses, Christina came out to greet him, directed them to a shaded nook, then offered a simple fare of cheese, oatcakes, and frothy ale.
“Lord have mercy.” Christina’s face blanched as she turned away from a commotion in the courtyard. “I do wish the prioress would let that poor young woman be.”
Will shifted on the bench where he sat to find two nuns dragging a woman by her arms out of the convent toward the center of the courtyard. The swirling of habits prevented him from seeing the woman fully, but she appeared limp, almost lifeless, as they hauled her toward a post used for punishment purposes.
He took a sip of his ale, grateful to be quenching his thirst, but still needled with the urgency to be on his way home.
Christina swiped at her cheeks, and Will realized she was crying. Although he hadn’t seen his sister often since he’d been off to war in France, she still held a special place in his heart. She was the tender one, the sibling who had always understood him better than any other, the one to give him comfort when no one else could.
Even if she was gentlehearted, she rarely shed tears. And the sight of them now made him sit up and glance again at the disciplinary action unfolding before them.
The limp woman wore a habit and veil, but since she didn’t wear a scapula he guessed she was only a novice. “What is her crime?”
“The prioress has accused her of stealing the dowry money given to the convent by her kin.”
As the nuns hefted the woman against the post, her veil fell away, revealing hair that was the same russet as his finest gelding.
His pulse lurched, and he stood abruptly, heedless of his trencher toppling into the grass. The luxurious red-brown fell over her shoulders in beautiful waves. The same color hair as the woman from his dreams.
His heart pounded hard against his chest like the stampede of warhorses. He’d been troubled with nightmares since his first campaign in France long ago. But over the past year, the nightmares had become so frequent he could hardly sleep—ever since he’d failed Thomas, ever since Thomas had taken the brunt of the torture and excruciating death in his stead.
From the moment he’d returned to Bergerac to pay the ransom and had come across his brother’s scattered bloody remains, he’d had no peace. Slumber brought him no comfort, didn’t give him even a brief respite from the pain of the loss. Rather, sleep only made the nightmares worse. Until this week. Until his nightmares had been interrupted by a beautiful woman.
As the nuns situated the woman’s bound hands to a hook at the top of the post, her russet hair fell across her face like a tangled curtain.
Was it truly the same woman? The one who’d wiped the tears from his cheeks—tears he hadn’t known were there. She’d given him strength and comfort and a sense of peace he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Surely this couldn’t be the same person.
Yet his muscles tightened with the need to know. “Who is she?” His tone was harsh, menacing, the one that made people around him cringe.
But Christina could see past his hard exterior and answered him with the trust and love she’d always given him so unconditionally—even though he didn’t deserve it. “Her name is Lady Marian Creighton. She came to us three days hence, alone, with only a pouch of money. The prioress assumed the coins were from her family as a dowry to the convent. Lady Marian claimed otherwise and took the money out of the prioress’s office. Although Marian has since returned the pouch, the prioress hasn’t yet relented in her punishment for the offense.”
Will tried to digest the situation.
“Please make them stop hurting her, Will. She doesn’t deserve it.”
Christina’s quiet statement was all Will needed to prod him into action. With swift strides, he approached the nuns, who had produced a rod the size of a walking stick. He had no doubt they intended to beat the limp woman’s back, probably already had on several occasions.
Oblivious to his approach, the nun raised the stick to bring it down across the woman’s shoulder. Will snatched it and snapped it in one motion. The startled nun released a squeak before scuttling away.
He tossed the stick to the ground, unrelenting in his fierce glare at the two nuns who’d been given the task of administering the discipline. They cowered into their habits as though they could hide within the folds. Their limbs visibly quaked and lips trembled.
He wasn’t proud of his ability to intimidate. In fact, he wasn’t proud of much. But in this case, if his gruff demeanor protected an innocent woman from further unnecessary discipline, then so be it.
“Inform the prioress I demand to have words with her.”
The nuns bobbed their heads and backed away. He suspected they were as much pawns in the discipline as the woman herself was. Nonetheless, he despised them for their lack of courage.
“Anon.” The one word was more menacing than the last, but he didn’t care. He turned away from the women, who were scrambling to do his bidding, unsheathed his dirk, and in one quick flick cut the russet-haired woman free from the post.
She slid to the ground onto her side, and the hair fell away from her face. His pulse slammed to a halt at the sight of the smooth creamy complexion, dainty chin, high cheekbones, and full lips of the same woman he’d seen in his dreams.
Was she alive? He lowered himself to one knee and pressed his fingers to her lips, feeling for the warmth of her breath. At the soft burst, his pulse sputtered back to life and began to rage with the force of an advancing regiment in battle formation.
He slipped his arms beneath her, but the moment he made contact with her back, she cried out in pain.
“She has already been beaten badly.” Christina spoke from beside him. “The prioress has been especially harsh with her.”
Will lifted the woman again, this time more gingerly. Even so, she moaned. He had no wish to cause her further distress, but she clearly couldn’t walk on her own. For a surprising instant, he considered mounting his stallion and spiriting her away from Prioress Margery.
However, if Lady Marian couldn’t tolerate his gentle steps now, how would she survive a jostling ride to the manor house?
He had no choice but to leave her at St. Sepulchre to recover. But ere he departed, he’d make clear his wishes regarding her care.
He started forward. “Lead the way to the infirmary.”
With wide eyes so like his own, Christina nodded and headed to a side door. Will followed her inside, even though convent rules forbade his presence. Christina led him a short distance to a cell and indicated for him to deposit Lady Marian onto the pallet.
As he knelt beside the thin pad and lowered her, she expelled a sigh, and her eyelids fluttered open to reveal eyes the dark brown of a richly fermented brew. They radiated agony. But they also connected with his—just as they had in his dreams. Other noblewomen didn’t dare meet his gaze, were too daunted by him. But this woman had no fear, and he felt the tug of her gaze all the way to his innards.
He was surprised again when she lifted her hand and cupped his cheek. Although the movement made her wince and suck in a sharp breath, she didn’t look away. “Thank you.” Before he could respond or even manage a nod, her hand fell away from his cheek, her eyes closed, and her head lolled into unconsciousness.
Urgency rose in his breast. “Help her, Christina. You must help her.”
Christina cocked her head, as though to question his passionate plea.
He sat back on his heels, the questions roiling through him too.
His sister squeezed his shoulder. “I shall do everything I can, William.” She would earn the prioress’s disfavor by giving aid to this woman, but threats of retribution wouldn’t stop Christina from doing what was right—which was one of the many qualities he appreciated about her.
Will stood and straightened his shoulders with renewed determination. “Have no fear. Ere I depart, I shall ensure your safety along with that of your patient. No harm will befall either of you.”
Christina nodded but was working to divest the woman of her habit. She’d pulled the loose-fitting garment away from the woman’s back, revealing numerous purple and blue welts. At the sight, an oath slipped from Will’s mouth. “Saint’s blood.”
The marks crisscrossed the pale, beautiful skin all the way down to the low dip at the base of her spine. Even with the swollen discoloration marring her back, the outline of her form was exquisite and womanly and showed her to be very desirable.
Christina tugged the habit lower toward the woman’s buttocks but stopped and peered up at Will pointedly. “I shall be able to tend her wounds more efficiently with privacy.”
He averted his gaze and backed out of the room into the hallway, fighting a wave of embarrassment. He hadn’t been interested in any woman since Alice died two years ago. As much as his mother had encouraged him to remarry, as much as Lord Percy had pressured him for a union with his youngest daughter, he’d rebuffed their endeavors, claiming he was yet in mourning.
Not that he’d had a close relationship with Alice, since he’d been gone to war for most of their ten years of marriage. But she’d been good to him whenever he’d been home, and she’d been an excellent mother to his sons. He had no complaints about her.
Nonetheless, he hadn’t grieved her loss the way a better man would have. He could blame his lack of remorse on his distress over what had happened with Thomas. But the truth was, he’d never known Alice well enough to miss her in life or death.
He wouldn’t deny he had carnal needs like every other male. But he abhorred the practice of pillaging and raping after a battle as many of his companions were wont to do. Even with the availability of poor French wenches in every town and village who were willing to sell themselves, he always resisted the urge, no matter how strong.
He gave a curt shake of his head and stepped farther from the cell and the beautiful red-haired woman. The problem was that it had been too long since he’d allowed himself to think about a woman. And now his urges were causing strange dreams and desires. In fact, the dreams of this woman had been so realistic that at times he’d even felt her touch.
Maybe he needed to finally consider taking a new wife. Before he went mad altogether.
At the pad of footsteps from the next hallway, he tensed and braced himself for confrontation. Within a moment, Prioress Margery rounded the corner, a number of nuns trailing behind her.
Keen dislike pierced him as it did whenever he was required to speak with this woman. He spread his feet slightly and crossed his arms.
“Sir William.” She halted in front of him and dipped her head in deference. Her retinue paused a dozen feet behind her, keeping heads down and hands hidden. When the prioress raised her eyes, they contained a disdain she’d never been able to hide, likely because he’d intervened on Christina’s behalf in the past.
“Shall we step outside, sire?” She motioned toward the door at the end of the hallway.
Although she was tactfully suggesting that he remove his presence from the convent, he didn’t budge. “You will cease the discipline of Lady Marian.”
The old nun’s lips pursed together, her fleshy jowls shaking.
Will lowered his voice to the volume he used to incite fear. “If I discover you have brought further harm to the lady in any form whatsoever, I shall report your abuse to the archbishop.” He wanted to threaten to do everything to her that she’d done to Lady Marian, but he bit back the clipped words. He wouldn’t harm a lady ever, not even a tyrant like the prioress.
“You will also allow Sister Christina to tend to Lady Marian until I retrieve her ladyship.” He knew naught about Lady Marian’s situation, where she’d come from, why she was at the priory, what her future plans were, or even if she needed retrieving. But the prioress didn’t need to know that.
The prioress’s small eyes gleamed sharply, but she lowered her head in a nod. As much as it pained the woman, she would do as he commanded. She had no other choice.
He spun on his heels and strode with firm footsteps down the corridor. He held himself rigidly, vowing to return within a sennight to check on his sister and Lady Marian. But as soon as he was mounted and riding again, he thrust all thoughts of the women from his mind. He had too many other concerns, too many battles, too many demons. And he didn’t need any more.