altar of the little whitewashed church, I could not pray for delivery from my abductor because he had suddenly assumed the guise of my admirer. With only a slight sense of impiety, I found myself praying that there might be a way I could achieve my own freedom – since my family was making no great effort to free me – while also pursuing the emotional fulfilment of which I had so recently and enticingly had a taste.
I returned, disconsolate, to the tower, but my mood would not last. Either on her own initiative or on instructions from Sir John, the stolid Marion had packed a change of clothes for me in the sumpter’s panniers, and my spirits rose as I discarded the mud-and-muck-stained garb I had been obliged to wear since leaving Raby. I presumed the fresh white linen kirtle and fur-trimmed green worsted gown I put on had been purloined from the Countess of Westmorland’s wardrobe, but I did not quibble about their ownership. Marion further surprised me by showing a certain skill with comb and brush and managing to braid and style my hair into something more graceful than the wild curls I had hitherto been obliged to control under my battered riding hat. I had no mirror in which to check my appearance but the expressions on the faces of my male companions when I joined them for the evening meal were sufficient to tell me that there had been a substantial improvement.
Despite the restrictions of Lent, a simple but tasty meal had been prepared for us consisting of grilled perch and trout, accompanied by boiled crayfish and a mess of creamed leeks and onions. I ate hungrily for the first time since my abduction and noticed that the men did too and soon the level of tension had dropped as the food restored the equilibrium in each of us. Afterwards there was soft cheese and freshly griddled oatcakes which, preferring wafers, I had always considered peasant fodder, but which smelled so delicious that I could not resist trying one.
‘I will never spurn an oatcake again,’ I confessed as I reached for a second. ‘Who has prepared this meal for us?’
Sir John cleared his throat and looked a little embarrassed. ‘The fish and vegetables were cooked by the priest’s, er, shall we say housekeeper? And the cakes come courtesy of our own expert campfire cook, Tam Clifford, Esquire.’
I looked across the table at Tam, gratified to see that the warm smile I gave him brought a blush to his cheeks. ‘A man of many talents then,’ I remarked. ‘Groom, hat-finder and now oatcake-baker. Thank you, Tam.’
‘He is also no mean swordsman,’ put in Thomas, clapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘Though no match for me, of course!’
‘Ha! We will see about that at the next arms practice,’ declared Tam. ‘Meanwhile, I will challenge you at chess after dinner.’
‘Done,’ agreed Thomas. ‘I will have you checked in three moves.’
‘Braggart!’ The young Clifford was indignant. ‘You have never beaten me yet.’
Sir John broke into their banter. ‘You can take the chessboard upstairs. Lady Cicely and I have business to discuss. And pour us more wine before you go.’
I frowned as Thomas refilled my cup but did not refuse. We were drinking a sweetish white wine which was stronger than I was used to and it had already made my head spin a little. I wondered what ‘business’ Sir John thought he had with me.
Soon we were alone and Sir John suggested we move across to a wooden settle that had been furnished with several threadbare but still serviceable cushions and set at an angle to the hearth where a fire was now glowing.
‘I fear it may be too hot, Sir John,’ I said, but I rose nevertheless.
‘If so we can move the seat, but I have not noticed you shying from the heat, Lady Cicely.’ I presumed his lop-sided smile indicated an intended double meaning, but I made no response.
Nevertheless I could feel my heart begin to beat faster as I took the proffered place on the settle and he sat down at the other end. Only a short distance lay between us. My hands were shaking as I took a sip from my cup, and I did not doubt that he could see this also. ‘Have you news from Raby, Sir John?’ I asked, unable to prevent myself spilling some wine as I placed my cup on a small table beside the settle. ‘I presume that is the business you wish to discuss with me.’
He gulped down the entire contents of his own cup and leaned down to dump it on the floor where it rolled drunkenly away. His face was suddenly anguished and the distance between us vanished as he took both my hands in his. ‘I have no news from Raby, Cicely, and of course that is not what I wish to discuss with you!’
All at once his lips were on my hands, he was kissing my fingers, turning them over to drop feathery kisses into my palms and onto my wrists. I felt the hairs lift on my arms and my belly clenching inside as his mouth began exploring the hollows of my throat and caressing the smoothness beneath my chin, then in between kisses he began murmuring softly, whispering words I had yearned for in my girlish dreams but never expected to hear in reality. ‘Ah, Cicely, you are even more beautiful than I first thought. Your throat is like silk, your cheeks are like velvet, your eyes are the colour of the Virgin’s robe and your lips are glowing coals that burn and burn and burn …’
As he mentioned each of these features he planted kisses on them, ending with another lingering, probing, searching of my lips, which mine instinctively opened to receive. The clenching sensation in my belly grew wilder and more demanding and without heed for my position on the settle, I arched my body into his in order to feel the beat of his heart and the response of his need to mine and then, as we clung feverishly to each other, the inevitable happened. The cushions slipped and pitched us both onto the floor. I found myself lying beneath him, slightly winded and breathless and he was staring down at me with a bemused expression, as if he could not quite understand what had happened. Then we both began to laugh.
However, with his body pressing down on me I could not breathe and had to push him off in order to give way to my mirth. When I could speak I spluttered, ‘Do you woo all your ladies by throwing them on the floor?’ By now I was sitting up and hugging my knees, feeling tears beginning to run down my cheeks. It had been funny but at this point I was not sure if they were tears of mirth or nervousness. I brushed them away. I had decided on my course of action and I was not going to change my mind now.
‘I would ask the same of you,’ he said with a grin, ‘except that it would not be chivalrous to assume that you had experience in these matters.’
‘Well now I have – and in future I’ll avoid polished settles with cushions on.’
Rising to his feet, he then bent to help me up.
‘Have you tried your myrtle-leaf bed yet?’ he asked.
I gave him a surprised look. ‘No I have not. Have you?’
‘Of course not!’
‘I am told they are fragrant.’
‘Who told you that?’
I picked up my cup and took a long draught of wine, gazing at him over the rim. ‘You did,’ I said. ‘Would you like to find out for yourself?’
John took the cup from my hand and put it back on the table. ‘Oh yes I would, very much.’ This time I took courage from the fact that his kiss was one of eager reassurance and encouragement.
‘What if Marion comes back?’ I murmured, my lips against his.
He opened the purse he wore on his belt and took out a key. I recognized it as the one he had removed from the door of my chamber earlier.
When
