April Munday (11 page)

This time her smile was real. “Do you think so?” She looked eagerly into his face and was rewarded with a rare smile that made him seem even more attractive.

He nodded and gripped her elbow more tightly, his expression becoming grim once more. “Do not fear, Rosamunde. He will not get close to you. Thomas, Guy and I will die before that happens and each of us is a match for Sir Walter.”

“No!” she protested before she knew what she was doing, reaching her hand up to his chest to admonish him, then pulling it back as she felt his warm flesh. “I would not have any of you die for my sake.” She pulled away from him and the sudden movement made her dizzy again, but he did not seem to notice.

He looked confused and turned his face away from her. He gathered himself and put the whole force of his attention on her. “But surely, you realised that that was why I was sent here. Your father would rather that a French cripple died before his trusted retainers.” He spoke of his death as calmly as if he was discussing the planting of the fields.

Now it was Rosamunde’s turn to be confused. “But…” Then her mind caught up with her tongue. He was right, of course. Why else would her father have sent him? If her life was his ransom why should his life not be forfeit for the ransom his father had failed to pay? All her romantic fantasies about him were wasted. He had been sent here to die if necessary. Once her father returned he would release Richard, if he survived the siege, and he would be lost to her. Either way, he would leave her and she would be alone once more. And she knew that whatever else happened, she did not want to lose Richard. He had become dear to her and she did not want him to return to France. Despite his many protestations to the contrary, she knew that he would have no choice once he was a free man again and she knew that her father would not keep him prisoner for long. Richard was far too dangerous and the other men who had stayed in the castle were already jealous of him. And if he died it would be worse. Her heart would be broken if she lost him. She trembled and Richard grasped her around the waist. “Are you ill Rosamunde?”

“I feel faint. It is stupid, I know….” and she swayed again. Richard caught her up in his arms and lifted her easily.

“I shall take you to your chamber and fetch your maid.” She could not help resting her head against his bare shoulder. She felt so weak that she knew she must fall if he set her down. How odd that he should have such an affect on her. He pulled her close against his chest and she murmured appreciatively before she could stop herself.

He limped heavily as he set off and she knew that even her small weight must be troubling his leg.

“Please,” she whispered, “Please set me down. You will hurt your leg.”

“It is of no matter. Put your arms around my neck.”

She obeyed him, meekly like a child; she could do nothing else. Her will had deserted her along with her strength. As she nestled against him she felt safer than she had ever felt before. This was where she belonged. It was this thought that distracted her as Richard walked through the castle to her chamber. She ceased to be aware of anything except the feel of his skin against her face and the rise and fall of his chest against her body. Despite his limp his motion was steady and he moved quickly. They reached her chamber too soon and he set her down on her bed. “I shall find your maid and return quickly,” he said and then he was gone.

She did not know what to think. In truth, she could not think and she fell into a troubled doze in which she dreamed that the castle and the town had been fired and people were dying all around her. At her feet was a bloodied corpse, lying face down. Even before she bent down to turn him, she knew that it was Richard. She awoke with a scream on her lips, only to find herself held against a powerful chest by strong arms.

“Richard?” He was stroking her hair gently, as if to smooth away the fear.

“You were having a bad dream, Rosamunde.” His voice was low and gentle and she was comforted. She slumped against him, too tired even to hold herself up. He must have forgotten that he was stroking her, for he continued and she did not think to remind him that he should not. She could not concentrate on anything but him and the dream she had had.

“I dreamt that everyone was dead, but me.” She shivered, though whether from the memory of the dream or from his closeness she could not tell.

He chuckled and she felt the rumble through the whole of her body. It awoke something deep within her and she lifted a hand to steady herself against his chest. He must be cold, for it seemed to her that he shivered as she touched him. “A bad dream indeed.” His skin felt cold beneath her fingers. Was he ill? Had he made himself ill by carrying her all that way? He had been so warm when she had touched him before. Involuntarily her fingers moved as if she had intended to caress him. He breathed in sharply with a hiss and she came to herself.

“Why are you here?” Finally coming completely to her senses, she realised that Richard should not be in her bedchamber and should definitely not be sitting on her bed holding her close and caressing her in his present state of undress.

“My teacher is giving me a practical lesson in caring for the sick, but she was not strong enough to restrain you when you started to scream.” She could tell that he had meant to make light of the situation, but beneath the attempted humour there was a deep concern for her well-being.

“Margaret…”

“I am here, Rosamunde. Do not fear that I would leave you alone with such a brute.” Although she joked there was an edge to her voice, which Richard seemed to understand as well for he released Rosamunde and gently lowered her back onto the bed. Margaret could not have seen him caressing her or she would surely have stopped him.

“I am sorry to have given you such a scare,” she apologised.

“It was to be expected. These last few days have not been easy.” How odd that his voice seemed less real now that she could not feel it through her own body. She felt as if some sense had been removed from her.

Margaret took Richard’s place beside Rosamunde and handed her a cup. The contents were hot and Rosamunde sipped gingerly. She looked at Richard, who was still naked from the waist up. Despite the state of his leg, his upper body was strong and well-muscled. His skin was much darker than her own she noted before she looked up to his face.

“You should leave,” she spoke more sharply than she had intended. He was far too dangerous to be in her bedchamber. He had robbed her of any ability to think clearly.

His eyes had expressed concern, but now they became so hard that she had to look away.

“Of course, my lady. I shall be outside, should you need me.”

She heard the door close and looked up to find Margaret’s searching gaze on her.

“He did the right thing,” she said gently.

“I know. I was tired… I am so tired.” And confused.

“Then sleep.” Margaret seemed to condemn and forgive in the same breath. “The potion should help and you will have sweet dreams.” Margaret sat beside her and smoothed her cool palm over Rosamunde’s forehead.

But Rosamunde did not think she would ever have sweet dreams again. She was in love with a man who had nothing and who was less than nothing and whose only purpose in life, it seemed, was to die to prevent her own death. What he felt for her, she had no idea, but she doubted he could love her. He had seemed amused by her confusion and so distant. As she fell back into a fitful sleep Rosamunde found once again that she was looking at the dead body of the man who had become so dear to her.

Rosamunde kept to her bed for the rest of the day. She did not want to appear weak before the castle’s inhabitants, but it was better that they think her ill, than that they know she had fainted from fear of what might happen. Surprisingly she slept for most of the afternoon, drifting in and out of the dream in which she discovered Richard’s dead and bloodied body. At one point she woke up drenched in sweat to find Margaret calmly wiping her face. Margaret avoided looking her in the eye and Rosamunde wondered if she had spoken as she slept, or worse, called out Richard’s name in her fear, but she was too tired to worry about it and it did not seem that important. What was important was that she was so cold. Perhaps she was dying of fear. Richard came to see her in the evening, but otherwise she had only Margaret’s company. She did not know where the day had gone. She had drifted in and out of sleep. She could remember very little of it, but it had been light when she had taken to her bed and now it was dark.

At least she could concentrate. Her fear had subsided a little and she could think of other things. Richard was subdued and she knew it was because he thought her weak for entertaining Sir Walter as a guest, but she had done it and it could not be undone. He sat silently beside her bed. She wondered how long he had been there before she became aware of him. She also wondered why he had come and not Thomas or Guy. Of course, they thought she was ill and would not think to disturb her. Only Richard knew the truth.

“Thank you,” she said finally.

“For what?” He was surprised.

“For bringing me to my bedchamber.”

“Would you have had me leave you lying in a passage for anyone to find?”

She tried to smile at the small joke, but could not. Despite sleeping for most of the afternoon she still felt very tired.

“I should not have been so weak.”

Richard shook his head. “Margaret says it is some kind of winter sickness that you are susceptible to here in the north. You have a slight fever. It is nothing to worry about.”

“I am ill?” She must be, or the explanation for her dizziness would have been obvious to her.

Richard smiled. “I do not think you are the kind of woman who would faint because she did not sleep well.”

She realised that he spoke the truth, he did not think the worst of her because she had fainted into his arms. Now that she thought about it Rosamunde realised that she had had a sore throat and a slight headache that morning.  She was relieved that she was not weak after all, but then a new thought took her and she opened her mouth to voice it, but could not say it.

“I was afraid it was something much worse,” Richard admitted, as if he had not noticed her try to speak. “But Margaret says it is very common and that we shall see much of it before the winter is out.”

This was Rosamunde’s own fear. Since the Big Death every cough, sneeze and fever had been considered a possible forerunner to another plague, but she would have other symptoms by now, so she accepted that Margaret knew what was wrong with her. They had both seen enough people die from it to know the symptoms.

“I am grateful to you. I was ungracious earlier.”

“No, you were right. It was not seemly for me to be here in such a state of undress.” He smoothed his tunic unconsciously as he turned away from her towards Margaret and she was surprised to see that his face reddened. Margaret frowned at him and he turned back to Rosamunde. She saw that the smile he had forced onto his face was not genuine.

“Do my people know that I will soon be well?”

“Yes. They are worried, but Thomas and Guy are doing their best.”

Rosamunde sank back into the bed. Even this short conversation had wearied her. Richard stood to leave.

“Something has been worrying me,” she said, reaching out her hand to him, which he took, absently, in his own.

He smiled and sat again. “What?”

She hesitated. “I had a dream. Everyone was dead, but me.”

Richard frowned and began to stroke her hand as absently as he had taken it. “That will not happen, Rosamunde.” She tried to suppress the shiver of excitement that ran through her body at his touch, but knew that she had failed when she looked into his eyes.

“Teach me to defend myself.”

Richard said nothing, but he released her hand as if he had suddenly become aware that he was touching her and his eyes glinted darkly. “You know that he will have to get through Thomas and Guy and me to reach you.”

“I know. I also know that we are a small garrison. Should he breach the walls there will be no hope.”

Richard gnawed at his lower lip in indecision and took her hand again. Rosamunde was distracted for a moment. It was almost as if he thought he had the right to touch her like this.

“There is no need to lie to me,” she continued. “I have eyes and I can count.”

“Very well. You should know I would never lie to you Rosamunde. You are correct. As long as we can keep him outside we are safe, but should he enter the castle his numbers will doubtless be overwhelming.”

“Then I wish to be able to defend myself.”

“You should discuss this with Thomas…”

“No! I am discussing it with you. I would rather Thomas believed in my ignorance.” Rosamunde bit her lip. Richard was her equal and she was talking to him as if he were a servant.

Richard looked doubtful. “Thomas is not stupid and he is not blind,” he echoed her own statement with a smile.

“Nonetheless, I should like you to teach me and to hide it from Thomas and Guy.”

He was staring at her hand as if he had just realised that he was holding it and she thought for moment that he would release her. Instead he squeezed her hand gently. “As you wish. But they will find out.”

“I am sure they will. It is a small garrison after all. But I would hide it from them as long as possible.”

He thought for a moment more. “We will begin when you are well again. In the morning.” This time she let him go.

Rosamunde was satisfied. She did not know whether the idea had sprung from fear of what Sir Walter might do or from a desire to spend even more time with Richard. It mattered not; it was done. All she had to do now was to rest in her bed for a day or so and get well.

Richard did not know what to think or where to go to think it. At home he would have got on his horse and left his father’s castle and gone to his favourite place a long way down the river. It was a sheltered place far away from the road between Avignon and Montpelier. No one would stumble across him there and he could lose himself in his thoughts.  He could spend hours there and no one would trouble him. He had spent hours there after his marriage to Louise and again after her death. It had become almost hallowed to him. And now he missed it. For the first time he felt sick for his home and everything that separated him from it. Never had it seemed so far away and never had he realised so forcefully that he could not go back. It was more than the physical distance of the British Sea and the kingdom of France. It was also his father’s cupidity and Poitiers and Rosamunde, mainly, as he was coming to understand, Rosamunde. If he had been in Charimaux he could have sat by the river and thought about her for hours and then he would have known what to do, as he had known what to do about Louise. For Rosamunde was definitely a problem to be solved.