April Munday (12 page)

Here there was nowhere he could be alone. Since Margaret was with Rosamunde he did not even have the sanctuary of the still-room. He did not have a key and did not want to go back to Rosamunde’s chamber to ask for it. Anyway, he doubted Margaret would hand over the key. Something had changed in her attitude the day before and he did not want a confrontation with one of the few people in the castle who had accepted him. He did not want to draw attention to himself by roaming about the castle, so he made his way to the chapel, certain that it would be empty at this time of day. The duke had built the small chapel as a sign of gratitude that he and his heir had survived the Big Death. It was small, intended for his own use and that of his immediate family. There was a small church just outside the walls for the garrison and their women and it was there that Richard had attended Mass two days ago.

Richard did not pay much attention to the chapel, although he did notice that the two longer walls bore paintings contrasting life and death. Richard lowered himself gingerly to the floor and leant against the wall depicting death, stretching his leg out in front of him. Despite his protestations to the contrary, carrying Rosamunde to her chamber had caused him a lot of pain and he had not felt that he could distract Margaret from caring for Rosamunde long enough to ask her for a draught of something to make it easier. But it was not the pain that concerned him now, it was the look he had seen in Rosamunde’s eyes and when he had taken her hand.  It was unfair, he knew. She was ill and not fully in control of herself, but he was sure that he had seen desire. He was thrilled and disappointed in equal measure. He was disappointed because she had finally shown herself to be no different from all other women. Everywhere he had gone women had thrown themselves in his way and proven themselves not to be worth his consideration. Now he could apparently number Rosamunde among them. He was thrilled because there was still just a chance that she was the woman he was searching for, but it was also unlikely and even if she was, there was nothing he could do about it. He was the enemy and he had nothing. Whenever he had thought about that particular woman, the one he could marry, in the past, he had been the son of a count. However small his inheritance might be from his father he would still have his name and his ability to fight the English to offer to his wife. Now he had nothing. His father had disowned him, his name meant nothing and he could no longer fight. Fighting the English had seemed so easy in Provence. In Sussex it seemed futile.

There was also the matter of teaching Rosamunde to defend herself to consider. He knew that they would be found out and he did not want to make an enemy of Thomas. He doubted anything he did would change Guy’s opinion of him, but he valued Thomas’ good opinion and had hoped that they could become friends. This would destroy any possibility of friendship between them.

Despite himself he had to admit that Rosamunde was being sensible. If Sir Walter had not had to send any men to France, as Thomas had indicated, he would be able to send a sizeable force to Corchester. Richard was confident that the walls would hold for some time and the siege would surely end with the duke’s arrival from France. He and Thomas had discussed sending out the garrison when the men from Dorset arrived to fight with them, but Thomas had said that only a few would come and neither of them had wanted to risk the security of the castle. Richard wondered why Thomas had sent for them, but Thomas would not say. There was a chance that the siege would last long enough for Sir Walter to force his way into the castle, then Rosamunde would have to know how to defend herself.

He would have to find a suitable place where he could be alone with Rosamunde without being discovered. The still-room was private, but too small. All the large rooms were public. Perhaps Rosamunde had somewhere in mind. He knew the castle well by now and could not think of anywhere that offered the necessary secrecy. The chapel was large enough, but it would be sacrilegious.

Then there was the matter of what he would teach her and how. This day had taught him that he was not immune to her touch and they would have to touch if he was to teach her. Margaret would be there, so he would not be able to give in to his lusts even if they got the better of him. Nonetheless, he would have to touch her to show her how to hold herself and how to hold her knife. He assumed she would prefer to use a knife. He felt his body warm at the thought of touching her again. It had been one thing to hold her when she had been insensible, it would be another when she was in full possession of her senses.

He leant his head back against the wall. He did not want to find that Rosamunde was like all other women. He did not want to know that she could be seduced by a soft word and a strong body. Until today he had almost succeeded in convincing himself that she was a virtuous woman, except he knew that such a woman did not exist. He had not realised how much he had hoped that she was virtuous until that hope had been dashed.

He pulled his hand across his eyes. No! All hope had not been lost. She had behaved properly when she had seen him come inside from the courtyard almost naked. She had turned away and not stared at him as that wanton Berthe would have done. He had been the one to touch her and hold her. She had done nothing. He had taken her into his arms while she was still firm on her feet and he had held her closer than he needed. He could have held her securely without any need for her to put her arms around his neck, but it had brought their bodies closer and he had wanted it, so he had demanded it. And he had enjoyed it.

No, hope was not dead. She had not enticed him. He coloured as he remembered sitting on her bed caressing her when she had woken from her dream. She had not asked him to do it; he had not been able to stop himself. He would have to be careful. She was not his and could not be his. He had not understood until today how much he was attracted to her. But he had been sent to protect Rosamunde, not to lust after her. And he did lust after her. No woman since Louise had exerted such a pull on him. Lust seemed such a mundane description of what he felt, but he could not deny that that was all it was. She seemed to be the very thing he had thought could not exist – a virtuous woman. Experience had taught him that women were not virtuous. Many times he had thought that he had found one, only to be disappointed by the ease with which they could be seduced.

But Rosamunde had done nothing to make him think she could be seduced. Fleetingly, he considered trying to seduce her, but he did not want to put their growing friendship at risk. She was learning to trust him and he was learning to trust her. Seducing her  would not encourage her to trust him; not that he wasn’t tempted. She was beautiful and intelligent and everything about her was pleasing.

And now he had to spend even more time with her. Her intelligence and common sense made her just the kind of woman that he would have sought had he still been in a position to do so. Such a woman would give him strong, healthy heirs. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. He could have no heirs; there was nothing to inherit. His time in the duke’s castle would pass much easier if he could only remember that he was a penniless cripple. Worse, he was the enemy. His king was a prisoner of the English king and he could not afford to forget it. Then he smiled. It would not have occurred to him to compare himself to the king in his former life, but now he saw that they had suffered the same fate. He assumed, however, that King Jean had found better accommodation and was not expected to give his life to save the virgin daughter of his captor. He balled his hands into fists and pushed them hard against his knees. No, he did not know that. He knew nothing about Rosamunde except that he desired her. She had been betrothed to Simon for some time before he went to France. Richard dragged himself to his feet. He could not think of Rosamunde like this. It would be better to assume that her husband had claimed his rights before he left. He left the chapel, not bothering to wonder why it pained him so much to think that Rosamunde might not be a virgin.

Rosamunde spent the next day in bed. She felt much better by the late afternoon, but Margaret advised caution and Rosamunde obeyed her. With Thomas back she felt less urgency about attending to everything herself. He would keep Guy in check and was respected by everyone. Rosamunde was not troubled by a further visit from the French prisoner, but he was constantly in her thoughts and when she was asleep he was in her dreams. It was not always the same dream. Sometimes he was as he must have been before his leg was damaged and they danced or ran together through the woods. Sometimes he was the man who played merreles and sang songs of love to her. Always the dream ended with him taking her in his arms and kissing her.  She was glad he had not come again. It would be bad enough to see him again when she was in full possession of her strength and senses. She had given herself away and he had seen her desire. There was no doubt in her mind but that he knew that she lusted after him. She was ashamed. She was no better than Berthe. Worse, for at least Berthe had been open about her lust.

Now that she had touched him, she hungered to touch him again, but she knew that she could not. Yes, she would touch him when he taught her to protect herself, but Margaret would be there. It had not been easy to persuade Margaret to keep such a secret from Thomas. Rosamunde was not even sure how long such a secret could be kept. Margaret would not tell, but Thomas would soon realise that something was wrong and there were other eyes on Rosamunde. They would use her father’s bedchamber. If they moved the bed and placed the small amount of furniture on top of it they would have enough space. With her father away and not expected, no servants would have occasion to enter the bedchamber. Thomas and Guy would not seek her out unless there was an emergency and they would go to the still-room first. She hoped that any emergency would be accompanied by enough noise to alert them so that they could leave her father’s chamber without attracting attention. But Richard was right; it was a small castle and people noticed things and drew conclusions. Someone was bound to see them walking through the castle together when they should be in the still-room, or someone would hear a noise from the bedchamber as they were passing by and questions would be asked.

She tried to convince herself that nothing would change. She and Richard had spent their afternoons together in the still-room in Margaret’s company. Now they would be in her father’s chamber. She was still doing nothing that could not be reported to her father. He would surely commend her for her common sense. As long as nothing happened.

She recalled that Richard had acted quickly with Berthe and had ignored her advances, but perhaps he would consider that Rosamunde had made her own advances in asking for tuition and it was one thing to turn down the wife of a minor lord and another to turn down the daughter of his gaoler. Between them, over the last few days, Richard and Guy had taught her to look for hidden motives in the actions of others. It was possible that Richard was making himself pleasing to her so that he could use her affections against her father. It seemed to her that he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by such actions. She did not want to think that of him, but she had been too trusting where Sir Walter was concerned and she did not want to make the same mistake again. She determined to give no further sign of what she felt. It would be up to him to act or not and then she would draw her own conclusions.

Chapter Six

Once in the duke’s bedchamber the three of them slowly moved the furniture out of the way. There was not much to move, but it was heavy. Although he was the strongest of the three, Richard’s weak leg meant that he could not take the weight of the heavier items, so Margaret and Rosamunde did most of the work. None of them said anything, but Rosamunde guessed that this must have caused him some embarrassment. Margaret’s face was set in disapproval and even Richard seemed to feel the force of it. He appeared less confident and more guarded than usual and kept glaring at Margaret. She, however, did not deign to glance at him, but kept her eyes fixed on Rosamunde. When the room was ordered, Margaret stood in a corner, out of the way, but dominating the room.

Rosamunde had always carried a knife on her belt, but when she showed it to him, Richard laughed. “This will serve you better.” From his belt, he pulled out a long blade with a small wooden handle and placed it in her hand. She looked at him in surprise. It was the first time she had held a knife that she could hold comfortably.

“I made the handle to fit your hand and the blade is light enough for you to use for fighting,” he explained. She blushed. It was only because she had grasped his hand when she was ill that he could have decided upon its size. “It will be easier to use because you will have a better grip on it and you will be able to use the blade.”

She nodded her understanding and tightened her grip on the handle. It felt smooth and warm in her hand.

Richard took it from her gently. “Hold it like this.” He demonstrated then gave it back and she copied him. He corrected her hold with his fingers, but not before he had looked at Margaret and then shifted his body slightly so that she could see what he was doing.

As soon as Rosamunde could hold the knife to Richard’s satisfaction he took it from her and began to show her how her body must move. He was a good teacher and she was a quick learner and they soon moved on to mock fights. Richard had brought her a wooden training knife and she practised stabbing and slashing at him. He parried with his own practice knife and occasionally caught Rosamunde on the arm. She felt that she must be bruised, but reasoned that no bruises would be seen through her sleeves and the momentary pain was a small enough price to pay. She was grateful for the current fashion that called for sleeves to be buttoned from the elbow to the wrist. They did not hinder her movement as her skirts did. She would have to give some thought to her clothing. It would be of little use to know what to do if she could not do it when the time came because of her skirts.