The Traitor's Daughter
Read The Traitor's Daughter Online
Authors: April Munday
The
Traitor’s Daughter
by
April
Munday
First published in 2013 by April Munday
Copyright © April Munday 2013
The moral right of April Munday to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
the prior permission of the copyright owner.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,
characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s
imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
To Linda, editor and proof reader extraordinaire. Many thanks.
Table of Contents
Southampton, Sunday
4
th
October 1338
“Ne me tuez pas, je vous en prie,” screamed Alais. The
nearer of the two mounted men brought his horse to a halt and gestured to his
companion to do the same. Alais’ heart was pounding and she could not draw
breath as she looked around. How far could she run before they caught her and
killed her? Or worse. Not far. The horses would catch her in seconds. It would
take the men on foot slightly longer. Even in these narrow streets she could
not lose them. She was lost herself. Shaking with fear, she knew she had little
time left. Now she committed her soul to God, hoping she would die bravely. She
prayed that these vile Frenchman would not see her fear.
“I have no intention of killing a woman, French or
otherwise,” said the taller of the two men eventually, as he slowly walked his
horse towards her. He had answered in the same language, his tone indicating
amusement. Alais tried to draw a breath, but her lungs were hurting too much.
She panted and gasped and her insides twisted. Now she would vomit in front of
these Frenchmen and she would be ashamed.
But perhaps they were not French. They did not seem to
be in a hurry to kill her as the others had been. No, these men intended to play
with her first, then they were going to rape and kill her.
She took a step back and looked around again. Still no
escape.
“I am not French,” she gasped out, finally, remembering
to speak in her own language.
“Neither am I.” The man had also switched to Norman
French, and immense relief swept over her. They must be English and she was
safe. “What is a lady doing out in the streets screaming that the French are
killing her when she should be at mass?” Alais looked closely at him, drawing
deeper breaths. He was well, although plainly, dressed and had obviously been
shaved that morning. He did not look like a man who had spent the night
crossing the English Sea in a large boat. He seemed amused. Could it be he
really had no idea what was happening?
“Running.” Finally able to answer his question she drew
another deep breath. “I am running away. The French are invading.” She waved
behind her and both men exchanged a worried glance as they seemed to see for
the first time the flames from the fires that the French were lighting as they
ransacked the town. She became aware now of the screams and shouts that she had
managed to block out as she had run from the church. Now the men understood why
she was running. They had a short exchange of words that was too quiet for her
to catch.
Satisfied that they were English, Alais took a more
confident step towards them, then screamed as the tall man drew his sword and
urged his horse towards her. At almost the last moment, he swerved aside.
Stepping away from him, she turned and watched as he advanced on the two men
who had just rounded the corner behind her. It seemed that she was their target
and their swords were raised as they made ready to attack her. She was shocked
at how close behind her they were. They must have been following her for some
distance. They were grinning as they saw that their prey was no longer moving.
One man was handing his sword to the other. He must be the one who was to rape
her first. The other man had seen the horsemen and fumbled with the sword,
which fell into the dust at his feet. The first man turned to berate his
companion for his clumsiness. He never even had a chance to know what was
happening as the horseman bore down on them and hacked at him even as he
started to rise with the sword in his hand. His body hit the ground
soundlessly.
Alais wondered why the other mounted man had not moved.
Surely the tall man was now in danger from the other Frenchman, who was
fighting back. Like her, he had apparently estimated the slim odds of
outrunning the mounted man. While the horseman was occupied with the first man,
the survivor raised his sword. His movements seemed slow and clumsy as he
stepped back to take a swing at his target. Alais had watched knights and
soldiers practise many times and she realised that this Frenchman was no
trained soldier. He seemed not to understand the need for speed, but would not
get a second chance if his first blow failed. He even took the time to get a
two-handed grip on his sword. It was the last thing he did. In one continuous,
graceful movement, the tall man brought his sword up from the fallen man and
through the sword arm of the second man. The arm and the sword fell to ground
and the man howled in pain as he stumbled backwards. The mounted man swung
himself from his horse and plunged his sword into the chest of the falling man.
It had taken seconds. Now she knew there had been no reason for the other man
to move; he would only have been in the way.
Alais let out a sob of fear as she wrenched her eyes away
from the gory tableau before her. She had tried to focus on the tall man, but
she could not avoid seeing the sight of the town burning behind. And above the
crackle and the roar of the fires she could hear screams of both people and
animals and was afraid that her fear would give way to screams at any moment.
She swayed slightly, but caught herself; now was not the time to faint.
Although there could be little doubt, the tall man
checked that both Frenchmen were dead. Satisfied, he took their swords from
them and cleaned them in their clothes. Then he took out a piece of cloth from
the bag hanging from his saddle, wrapped the swords in it and secured them
behind his saddle. He tested the binding, then walked towards her, leading his
horse. She was reassured by his actions. He appeared to be a competent soldier
and he had made sure that these weapons could not be used again by the enemy.
More calmly she took another deep breath. She would not look away from the
bodies and the blood that was pooling around them; she would not.
“You are right, my lady, they do seem to be invading,”
he said, returning to their conversation as if there had been no interruption.
She felt his hand at her elbow and knew that she had swayed again. Ignoring her,
the tall man looked up at his companion and spoke in English. “You had better
take this lady…” he turned back to her.
“Alais,” she said, “Alais de Montjoye.”
The man started and a dark expression crossed his face,
then he returned his attention to his companion. “You had better take Lady
Alais back to Hill and stay there with her.” Despite the fact that this man had
undoubtedly just saved her life, Alais saw no reason to trust him. The French
were not the only ones who were treacherous in these dangerous times. The roads
were full of outlaws and criminals and he had not explained why he was not at
mass himself. She suspected that he was going to pretend to send her out of the
town to some place of safety with his servant. Then he would set upon her and
abuse here and steal whatever she had on her and leave her for dead. They were
as bad as the French. Worse. At least England was at war with France. She shook
herself loose from his grasp and stepped away from him. As if that would save
her!
“I am Sir Hugh de Liss,” he announced with a small bow
and for a moment, Alais forgot to breathe, then let out the breath she had been
holding. There could be no thought of not trusting him now.
He bowed again. His earlier look of amusement had
returned. “Yes, come to escort you to Liss. I am sorry we could not have met
you under better circumstances.”
Alais had not expected that the heir would be part of
her escort; it would make the journey uncomfortable for both of them, but, for
now, she was glad that he was here.
Alais shook her head as if to forgive him for making a
small social faux pas. Then she remembered and all her fear returned. “My
mother. I have not seen her since she pushed me out of the church.” And now the
horror of it returned to her, she felt tears prick in her eyes.
“The church?”
“St Michael’s. They came upon us while we were at mass.”
Sir Hugh swore fluently in English. She suspected that
he did not mean her to understand, but she had been around the villagers at
Leigh enough to be an expert herself. “I shall find Lady Eleanor for you, have
no fear of that,” he promised, looking quickly away from her.
Alais could tell that he expected to find her mother
dead. He could not look her in the eye. In truth, she also expected her mother
to be dead. How could an elderly woman have survived what had happened in the
church? She cried out at the memory. Sir Hugh took a step towards her and she
held out a hand to stop him.
“Please, my lord, waste no more time with me. Find my
mother and save her.”
He took her hand and brought it swiftly to his lips. “I
am yours to command.”
She froze as his warm breath brushed the back of her
hand, then closed her eyes as he touched his lips to it. His hand, so much
larger than hers, was strong and calloused. He had only to tighten his grasp
and her hand would be shattered. It was not fear that she felt. It was
something unknown, unknowable. She opened her eyes again. He, too, was frozen,
but his eyes were on hers. His whole being was concentrated on her eyes. His
own were difficult to read. One moment she thought they were blue, the next
grey. She saw pity in them. That was understandable since he expected that he
would soon be telling her that her mother was dead. There was some fear. That,
too, was only to be expected. Who was to say that the next Frenchman he met
would not take his life instead of the other way round? There was also a
longing, for what, she could not imagine, but it was there. Above all of these,
and greater than them all, was something that she could not quite discern.
Understanding seemed within her reach when he lifted his head and shook it, as
if to dispel whatever had taken hold of him and the earlier mocking expression
returned to his face, if not his eyes. Still he held her hand and it seemed
natural to her that he should do so. Some of his strength seemed to flow into
her and she felt some of her fear ebb away. She smiled then. He returned her
smile. She had the impression that he did not smile often.
Even smiling, he was not handsome. His servant was more
pleasing to the eye. Slightly shorter than his master he had similar colouring
– fair hair and a tanned face Sir Hugh had already demonstrated his bravery and
she knew instinctively that he would keep his promise to find her mother. She
squeezed his hand in gratitude.
As if finally satisfied, he let go of her hand. Alais
felt bereft and reached out to him, but he was already moving away and did not seem
to notice.
He turned once more to his companion, “Take her to Hill,
Edmund and stay with her until I return. If it looks as if the French are going
to get to Hill, then take her to Liss as fast as you can. You are to value her
life above your own.” He turned back to face her, “As I do.”
He helped Alais up onto the horse so that she sat
astride it in front of the other man, without further ado.
Alais could tell from the tension in Edmund’s body as he
held her that he would rather stay and fight the French than look after a woman
who was a stranger, but she could also tell from the expression on Sir Hugh’s
face that he trusted the servant to do exactly what he had been told. She
leaned forward to touch Sir Hugh’s shoulder. “Thank you very much.”
They waited and watched Sir Hugh ride into the town,
then Edmund turned his horse round and headed back the way he had come.
Sir Hugh de Liss, oldest surviving son of Sir William de
Liss, knight, one-time professional soldier and, lately, heir to his father’s
vast estates, rode into the town to retrieve his honour. It seemed that he did
not have to go abroad to fight the French and die after all. They were
obligingly coming to him. He had been looking forward to fighting for many
months, even before war had been declared. Like the rest of the country, he had
realised where King Edward’s claim to the French throne must ultimately lead.
Having gone to France with his king at the start of the war, he had been
disappointed by the lack of combat and had returned to England while Edward
gathered support from his allies in the Low Countries. Hugh was not a diplomat.
He considered diplomacy a waste of time. If a man had an enemy, he fought him
until one was the victor and the other defeated and that was the end. If
Edward’s cause was just, and Hugh believed that it was, he would triumph. If it
was not, King Philip would be the victor. The king did not need to amass foreign
mercenaries; he needed no more than the knowledge of his own righteousness.
Hugh had trained all his life to be a soldier and he
wanted to fight. He was realistic about his chances in a battle. He was a good
soldier, but even good soldiers sometimes met better soldiers, or were just
unlucky. In the north he had seen good soldiers destroyed by Scots cunning or
by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having accepted a few
years ago that he would probably die fighting the Scots, he had now accepted
that it would probably be his fate to die in France. Until today, he had not
really taken seriously the possibility of a French invasion. Obviously Edward
had discounted it, too, or he would have either remained in England or made
sure that his coast was defended. Now Hugh found himself having to think about
dying in England. He shook the thought off impatiently. He was a soldier and
fighting was what he did. France, Scotland or England, it mattered little. Eager
for battle, he had not enjoyed the prospect of being patient and waiting until
the proper fighting started in France.
Despite, or perhaps because of his sudden, unlooked for
prosperity, he had nothing to live for and many excellent reasons to die. He
did not fear death and he did not think it folly to die in the service of his
king. That way lay glory.
He had a half-formed suspicion that Edmund only stayed
with him to make sure he did not throw his life away foolishly. Edmund was a
free man and not bound to Hugh by law or money. He had understood the look that
Edmund had given him before they had parted, but Edmund was wrong. Hugh did not
seek death; he merely accepted that one day his actions might cause him to die.
He was a soldier and even good soldiers could not expect to have long lives in
time of war. He had no intention of throwing his life away, however, his death
would have to mean something. Although there were some nights when he lay awake
considering what he done and wondering why his own life had not been forfeit,
he was not yet ready to leave it willingly.
