that dropped to a lower level, dotted with hawthorns and sleeping ducks.
She followed the river away from the Abbot’s House in the direction of the boat, her bare feet making no sound on the grass. She kept low, putting the trees between herself and the river, passing the kitchens and the tumbledown wall of the kitchen garden and eventually finding herself on a grassy track that led to a wooden bridge and from there to the mill on the opposite side.
A small rowing boat was tied up below the bridge and, as there was no other, she assumed it to be the one she had seen, suggesting that whoever had left it there was probably in the mill. The miller, perhaps, returning from a late night with friends?
The owls had ceased their hooting as she retraced her steps, the moonlit abbey now appearing from a different angle, the great tower of the church rising well above every rooftop. Rather than return by exactly the same route, she was drawn towards a gap in the old kitchen-garden wall that bordered the track, its stones paving a way into the place where monastic gardeners had once grown their vegetables. It was now impossible for her to make out any shape of plot or pathway, but she picked her way carefully towards the silhouetted gables of the Abbot’s House, brushing the tops of the high weeds with her palms.
A slight sound behind her made her jump, and she turned, ready for flight, only her lightning reaction saving her from a hand that shot forward to grasp at her arm. She felt the fingers touch the linen of her sleeve, heard the breath of the one who would hold her, and then she swerved and fled, leaping and bounding like a hare without knowing which part of the wall ahead held the means of her escape.
She was tall, for a woman, but her pursuer’s legs were longer than hers and she was forced to use every device to evade him, swerving and zigzagging, ducking and doubling, hoping by these means to make him stumble. But it was she who stumbled on the rough ground that had not been cultivated for some twenty years or more, and that hesitation was enough for the man to catch her around the waist and swing her sideways, throwing her off-balance. She went crashing down into a bed of wild parsley and, before she had time to draw breath, his weight was over her, pressing her face-down into the weeds and forcing an involuntary yelp out of her lungs.
That was all she allowed herself, knowing that to reveal her identity might make her a greater prize than she already was. Let him think her a servant, a silly maid meeting her lover. It was not until he spoke that she realised how she must have appeared.
‘Now, my lad, that was a merry little dance, eh? Let’s introduce ourselves then, shall we? Then you can answer a few questions.’ The voice that breathed softly into the back of her neck was nothing like a common labourer’s, nor did he seem to be out of breath, but more like one who had enjoyed the chase, knowing he would win. He eased himself off her shoulders to kneel lightly astride her hips. ‘Your name, lad?’ he said.
Felice clenched her teeth, waiting for the persuasive blow to fall. This was something she had not reckoned on. Her face was deep in the shadow of long stalks and feathery leaves where the moonlight could not reach, her cheek pressed against the night-time coolness of the earth, which was to her advantage as soon as she felt his response to her silence.
‘All right, lad, there are other ways.’
His hands were deft around her waist, searching her lower half for weapons and hesitating over the soft fabric of the chemise tucked into the belt. ‘Hey! What’s this, then?’ he said more softly. Slowly, his hands moved upwards, spanning her back, his fingertips already well out of bounds. The next move would be too far.
Taking advantage of his shift in position, Felice twisted wildly, flailing backwards with one arm to hit hard at the side of his head with a crack that sent a wave of pain through her wrist. It took him by surprise, and although he was quick to recover his balance, it gave her the time she needed to roll beneath him and to push hard with one shoulder, using every ounce of force she could summon.
He swayed sideways but caught her again before she could free her legs from his weight, and then she fought madly, desperately, knowing that her boy’s guise was not, after all, to be her safety. In panic, she tore at his shirt and sleeveless leather jerkin, missing his face but raking his neck and forearms and finally sinking her teeth into the base of his thumb as he grabbed at her wrists. She felt him flinch at that, giving her yet another chance to twist away, kicking and beating, desperate to be free of him.
She rolled, lashing out, but he rolled with her, over and over through the spring growth of chick-weed and willow-herb and she was sure, without seeing his face, that he was actually enjoying her efforts, even while being hard pressed to contain them. At last she was stopped by an ancient half-buried wheelbarrow, and she lay, panting and exhausted, in an embrace so powerful that it hurt her ribs, immobilised by strong legs that encircled hers, her back against his chest and her wrists held fast beneath her chin by one of his hands.
She felt his chest shake in silent laughter while his free hand took her heavy plait and slipped the ribbon off the end, combing her thick hair loose with his fingers and letting fall a silken sheet of it across her face.
‘There now, my beauty. Shall we stop pretending now. Eh? Fleet of foot and sharp of claw and tooth. That’s hardly a lad’s way now, is it? You’re going to tell me who you are, then?’
Her resolve to remain silent wavered while her mind sought a quick answer to the question of his intentions; whether he would have as many qualms about violating a noblewoman as much as a village lass. Yet there was something about his persistent interrogation that suggested some other purpose behind his violent pursuit. Surely he would not have chased a lad with such ferocity if he’d had only rape in mind. But having discovered he held a woman, would he now change his purpose?
Panic, anger and dread screamed through her mind and left a sickly void at the pit of her stomach, for now his hand had come to rest upon the large silver buckle of her belt, loosening the thong in a leisurely mockery of her weakness.
‘No,’ she whispered, writhing. ‘No…please!’
The hand stopped, but the voice was smiling. ‘No? No, what? You’re not going to tell me who I’ve captured? Are you a moon-spirit, perhaps?’
‘No,’ she whispered again. Having broken her silence, it seemed necessary now to insist. ‘Let me go. Please.’
He spoke teasingly against her ear, his words touching her. ‘Then I require some kind of proof that you’re mortal, don’t you agree? Do you have any suggestion of a harmless nature? Nothing too…irreparable?’
Holy saints! What was he talking about? Suggestions of a harmless nature? Nothing irreparable? Angered, obdurate, she remained silent, now becoming aware of the throbbing in her wrist. She tried twisting to bite at any part of him, but his hand tightened its grip as she writhed, his free hand gently easing the linen chemise from the safety of her breeches.
She stopped, again paralysed with foreboding.
‘So, tell me who sent you here. Who are you working for?’ His hand was still, waiting on the bare skin of her midriff, and when she again refused to answer, he shifted slightly, settling her sideways against him and wedging her head into his shoulder with one iron forearm.
Looking back on this episode, she was to wonder why she had not screamed, why she had suddenly been aware of her heart fluttering instead of beating, or why the dread had suddenly become tinged with a shade of illicit excitement. It was dark, she was to excuse herself later, and she had not been able to see when his mouth covered hers, and then all proper maidenly resistance was obscured by longings that had lain dormant over the long dark months of autumn and winter, waiting to be rekindled.
It
