Beloved Abductor
Authors: June Francis
© June Francis 1987
June Francis has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First Published in 1987 by Mills & Boon Ltd.
This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Felicia Meriet’s eyes watered as the smoke from the cooking-fire weaved about the unfamiliar hall. It was crowded with men, and the clamour of their voices bounced against her ears in undulating waves. She rubbed at the knot of pain spreading between her dark brows and longed for the quietness of her bedchamber. How long she would possess its solitude she did not know.
She glanced at her cousin Philip sprawling in the canopied chair next to her. He was darkly handsome with high prominent cheekbones and a full sensuous mouth. His nose was thin and straight like that of all the Meriets, and once Felicia had thought herself in love with him. When his eyes caught hers, they glittered in a predatory fashion. She lowered her gaze swiftly, in seeming modesty, knowing it would do no good to let her cousin become aware of her fear and dislike.
Why had he brought her here to the manor of de Vert? He had said it was for her own safety in these perilous times when England simmered on the verge of civil war in this year of Our Lord, 1265. She doubted the truth of his words. Could she be safer so near to the northern border with Wales? If it was her safety Philip was concerned about, he should have allowed her to return home to her manor of Meriet, north of Ludlow.
Felicia sighed. What a fool she had been to have gone with him in such a meek fashion a year ago! He had come to tell her of the deaths of her father and brother Mark at the Battle of Lewes. She had barely taken in his suggestion that he would deal with her affairs and that she should go with him to his manor. In her grief, she had wanted to believe that he meant to do the best for her. Her mother had died in childbirth six years earlier, so when Philip had said that she would benefit from the comfort of an older woman, she had thought there was some truth in his words. Still, she had felt the need of someone she knew, and asked if she could take her cousin Joan with her. He had brushed her request aside, saying that his wife Matilda would be company enough.
To some extent that had been true, since Matilda had been pathetically eager to be friends. She was a gentle creature who feared her husband and tried to disguise the marks of his ill-treatment. Their friendship had not lasted long. Felicia closed her eyes briefly and her throat moved convulsively as she seemed to hear once again the long-drawn-out scream and the slithering and thudding of Matilda’s body as she tumbled down the stone steps. Felicia had come running out of her bedchamber to see her cousin standing at the top of the stairway.
‘She slipped,’ Philip had murmured, his eyes dangerously chill. ‘My poor wife. Now I must find another.’
Felicia had whirled round and locked herself in her bedchamber. The suspicion that he had murdered his wife took root and grew until it shadowed all her thinking. The days had passed into weeks and she had begged Philip to allow her to go home, but always he had put forward some excuse.
‘More wine, coz?’
Felicia hooded her eyes swiftly, nodding meekly. Philip’s smile was contemptuous as he snapped his fingers. A serving-man standing behind them stepped forward. He was soberly clad in a black tunic, and seemed to have been awaiting her cousin’s call. She caught a glimpse of frosty grey eyes, an aquiline nose and a long-lipped mouth before his too long tawny hair swept forward and concealed his face. He poured wine into the large silver chased cup. Her cousin drank deeply before passing it to her. She was careful to sip only a small amount, thinking she might need her wits this night.
Her cousin let out a growl. ‘God’s blood, woman! You must drink deeper than that. More wine, and perhaps you will have more warmth in you.’ He snapped his fingers and bade the servant fill the cup once more.
Felicia felt a surge of anger, and her fingers twisted tightly about the cup’s silver bowl. Her mouth set firmly, and she watched as the man filled the vessel to the brim. She was aware again of his gaze upon her. His eyes washed slowly and with a cool deliberation downwards, lingering where the blue silk of her under-gown moulded her well-formed breasts. Even as she flushed, her blue eyes sparked with anger. For a brief second surprise gleamed in the servant’s cool eyes before they darkened into charcoal slits. He straightened and stepped back out of her vision.
How dare he look at her like that! Did she not have enough to put up with from her cousin? To have a servant study her with such arrogance, openly calculating the charms beneath her clothing! Were all men beasts? She picked up the silver cup, and gulped down more wine before passing it on to her cousin, knowing she might regret the act later.
‘Would you think it rude in me if I begged to be excused, Philip?’ she asked. ‘I am weary after the long journey from Leicestershire,’
His eyes glittered with annoyance. ‘I will not have you retire so early, Felicia.’ Philip had a strange way of biting his words off short when he was annoyed. ‘I miss the presence of a woman since my wife so unfortunately met her death — but I am thinking of remedying that as soon as the mourning period is over.’
Felicia’s heart seemed to miss a beat. ‘But I have a megrim.’ She let her hand rest on the wide scarlet linen sleeve of his cote-hardie. ‘Please, Philip?’ She gazed at him with limpid eyes.
‘It is my wish that you stay.’ Philip toyed with her fingers, pressing each one until it hurt. She knew it was best to show no pain. The longer he thought her amenable to all he said and did, there was a chance that one day he might slacken his guard over her. When she did not wince or remove her hand, Philip lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed each one. Felicia let her hand lie a little longer in his before taking it away. She watched him as he drank. If he imbibed enough wine, he would nod off, and she would be able to leave the hall.
No sooner had he emptied the cup than he beckoned the servant forward again. With a barely audible sigh, Felicia took it once more and gulped down enough of the wine to hopefully satisfy her cousin. Over its rim her glance roamed the hall. So many men and so well armed, even here at the feast to celebrate Philip taking this castle. She supposed he would be a fool not to anticipate some retaliation after murdering Sir Gervaise and his sons. Still, surely they would have allies? England simmered uneasily beneath Earl Simon de Montfort’s rule. Philip’s star had risen with the Montfort’s, and he had grown powerful and rich in a land torn by conflict. These days few believed that the king and his son, the Lord Edward, were kept so closely guarded, purely for their own protection. Felicia had heard rumours that Edward chafed beneath his uncle’s restraint, and that many of the barons were growing restless of Earl Simon’s dictates. Her father and brother had fought on the King’s side, despite not having always agreed with Henry III’s policies.
She felt the pain tighten in her head, and wondered how much longer she would have to stay in the smoke and noise. Several tumblers had risen from their places, and one began to somersault up the centre between the tables. There was a ripple of taunting laughter as he slipped on the rushes and he grinned self-consciously as he gained his balance. A juggler followed, and after him a minstrel who approached the high table and began to sing a slow ballad. Felicia gave a yawn, and rubbed a hand across her eyes as his figure seemed to recede into the distance, only to appear nearer next time she looked.
She glanced at Philip slouching against the cushions and rose to her feet, thankful when her cousin took no heed of her. The room seemed to tilt sideways, and she clung to the arm of the chair. At last she managed to stand upright and walked to the rear of the hall and out into the courtyard. She took deep draughts of air and her head cleared momentarily. She stumbled along the rear wall of the keep. Again she felt dizzy as she rounded a corner and neared the stone steps that led up to her bedchamber. A shadow seemed to dance beyond the stairway. She told herself that it was her imagination. Her body felt as if it would float, and on reaching the bottom step, she tripped and slid to the ground. Instantly the shadows seemed to merge into one oversized dark cloud, and all awareness fled.
A figure detached itself from the dark bulk of the keep, striding towards her hunched-up shape. The man stooped and slid his arms beneath Felicia and lifted her limp body against his chest. For a second, starlight gleamed dully on his tawny hair and then he moved back into the gloom. Conscious of the guards watching high on the outer walls, he melted swiftly into the darkness and began to retrace his steps to the rear of the keep. It had been easier than he had expected, and Phillip Meriet had not recognised him despite their recent brief encounter. When he reached the buttery, there was just space enough behind its walls and the outer one to worm his way through. He raised a protective hand over Felicia’s head as he stooped beneath a low branch, walking alongside the outer wall. A postern gate loomed ahead and he slung her inert form over his shoulder, fumbling at his waist for the key. The door opened to reveal the river, and, stepping carefully, he walked halfway down the steps, which he had cleared of trailing weed the night before. Fortunately none of the guards watched in this direction, thinking themselves safe because of the river.
He walked easily along the grassy path that followed the river bend. His horse whinnied as he approached and he hushed it, easing Felicia’s quiescent body on its back. The girl half-lifted her head while he swung into the saddle behind her, and he put out a hand to steady her as she murmured before slipping into unconsciousness again. Only once did he turn and gaze back at the castle. Dawn was not so far off, and it was a good hour’s steady riding to the charcoal-burner’s hut in the forest.
Felicia groaned and turned over. Immediately she was aware of the hardness of the pallet beneath her. She screwed up her face in bewilderment, reaching for her covers and wondering why it was so stuffy in her bedchamber. Her fingers grasped fur, and she caressed the edging of the cloak in surprise, then her fingertips scraped the earthen floor of the hut. ‘I’m not in my bedchamber!’ The words were forced from her as she lifted heavy lids and stared up at the smoke-darkened rafters, where hung a haunch of salted pork and several bunches of herbs and onions. She sat up abruptly, wincing and putting up hands to hold her head steady.
At a stir of movement to her right, she eased her head round carefully. A man sitting on a three-legged stool watched her. His eyes were grey; his brows, straight and thick, several shades darker than his tawny crop of hair. The jaw was firm with no sign of thickening, and his mouth was long-lipped. She guessed that he was some few years older than her, and she would be eighteen in November. Her heart gave a sudden lurch as his chilling glance hooked onto hers.
‘Where am I? Who are you?’ she croaked. He made no answer but rose and went out. Felicia glanced about her swiftly and at once regretted doing so as her head swam. She shut her eyes, trying to think—to reason why and how she had come to this place. Only when she felt the wooden rim of a cup against her chin did she realise that he had returned. She opened her eyes and summoned all her strength to grip the cup, managing to lift it to her lips. She drank the ale slowly, determined not to be daunted by his silent presence. She drained the cup and handed it back to him. ‘I would like some more,’ she asked huskily.
‘Later. I wish to speak with you now.’
‘I do not feel like talking,’ she muttered. ‘I have a megrim.’
‘Even so, Mistress Meriet, you will listen to me,’ he said firmly.
‘How do you know me? Who are you? It—it was you who gave us the wine last night, wasn’t it? You put something in it, didn’t you? But why?’ Fear and bewilderment was there in her voice and she felt sick.
‘Ay! Poppy syrup. It was easily done. Your cousin’s men are not so careful for his safety as he would have them be. They were not choosy when it came to forcing peasants to leave their labour in the fields and to help in the preparation of his feast.’
‘But you are no peasant! Peasants would not behave in the way you have done. Are you one of Sir Gervaise de Vert’s allies?’
He scowled. ‘I am kin to him. My name is Master Edmund de Vert. Let that answer suffice.’
‘But why drug my wine, and why bring me to this hovel?’ She eased herself into a sitting position, so that her back was against the wall of the hut. ‘What have I done that warrants an abduction?’ There was the barest hint of a tremor in her voice.
His expression was glacial. ‘You are the one possession your cousin holds dear above all others.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I overheard his men talking as we prepared the feast. They say he intends to wed you.’
‘No! You are mistaken!’ Yet even as Felicia spoke, she was remembering her cousin’s words.
‘I have watched you together and seen how he fondles you,’ he said harshly. ‘Only yesterday I heard whispering that he murdered his wife and that you were there when it happened. Did you arrange it between you? You are young to be a murderess and a wanton! What are you—seventeen, eighteen summers?’ He flung the words at her.
‘He told me that she slipped.’ Even as she spoke, some of her uncertainty and anguish showed on her face.
‘Slipped?’ His tone was contemptuous.
‘I too had my doubts.’ Her voice was ragged and she bowed her head. ‘But I had no proof. Now it is too late to do anything about her death.’
He did not hear the regret behind the words; to his ears, they seemed to be only an excuse.
‘Too late for her, perhaps,’ he rasped. ‘Too late to fix guilt where it belongs. But it is not too late for him to regret all that he wrought on this manor.’ He paused and took in a deep hissing breath. ‘Your cousin raped my mother and caused her death.’