Christmas At The Tudor Court: The Queen's Christmas Summons / The Warrior's Winter Bride. Amanda McCabe
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certainly cannot! You can’t even walk on your own. I have taken too much trouble over you to abandon you now.’ Alys thought of the terrible scene on the beach, the helpless, half-drowned men just cut down, and she shuddered. No one deserved such an end. Treating helpless prisoners thus cruelly made the English no better than the Spanish devils the maidservants had feared so much.
And this man did not seem to be a cruel demon, come to garrotte and brand English children. There was a kindness in his eyes, beneath the wariness.
She led him into what had once been the dairy for the abbey. It was one of the only buildings still mostly intact, with its roof and door. It was windowless and cool, the thick walls lined with shelves that still held buckets for milk and covered containers for butter and cheese. There was a hearth where cream would be stirred.
‘Wait here,’ she told him, propping him against the wall. A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips beneath his beard, as if her bossiness amused him. She hurried to find a pile of old canvas sacking, which she used to make an improvised pallet bed by the hearth. There was a bit of wood left in a basket by the fireplace, along with a flint and some twigs for kindling. It was a bit damp, but she managed to get an ember to catch.
She turned back to the man, whose tall body sagged against the wall. His eyes were closed, his skin very pale. Alys hurried to his side and slid her arm around him again. He was so very tall and she couldn’t reach around his chest. Surely he would soon regain his health and be a fine figure of a man again.
‘Come, sit down by the fire,’ she said, trying to keep her voice calm, to hide her fear. ‘It isn’t much, but at least it’s out of the rain. You can rest quietly.’
She helped him to lie down on the improvised mattress. He fell back to the sacking with a suppressed, painful sigh. He made no protest as she unfastened the buttons of his ruined doublet. The fine fabric was sodden and crusted with salt, but she saw that the buttons were silver and there were traces of metallic embroidery on the collar.
Who was he? She was greatly intrigued by the mystery of him and how he came to be on that ship. But her curiosity would have to wait.
As she peeled away the doublet to find a bloodstain on the torn shoulder of his fine linen shirt, a small packet of letters fell out. Alys reached for it, but despite his wounds he was faster. He snatched it away, holding it tightly in his long, elegant fingers. His gold ring glinted.
‘Don’t let these be lost,’ he gasped. ‘They must stay with me.’
‘Of course,’ Alys said gently, even as she burned with curiosity to know what those letters held. Her rescued sailor became ever more intriguing. ‘Be easy, señor. They will go nowhere.’
He studied her closely with those otherworldly green eyes, until she felt her cheeks burn hot with a blush. At last, he nodded and laid back down again. When Alys was satisfied he rested calmly, she hurried back outside to find the cistern near the old refectory. She dipped him a pottery goblet of the clean water, and went back to kneel at his side. His eyes were still closed, but she could see the lines of pain etched around his mouth.
‘Here, drink a bit of this,’ she said. ‘I need to look at your shoulder. I’ll have to fetch some food and medicine for you from the castle and I should see what exactly I will need.’
He nodded and laid very still as she eased the salt-stiff shirt away from his shoulder. His chest was smoothly muscled, with pale brown hair lightening the sun-browned skin. But that perfect expanse of skin was marred with a deep gash at his shoulder, apparently from a dagger-like splinter.
Alys ripped a bit of canvas from the sacking and dipped it into the clean water to dab at the wound. As she cleaned away the crusted blood, she saw that it was a long cut, but not terribly deep. She would need pincers to clear away the smaller splinters.
As she worked, she tried to focus only on her task, not on him, his breath as he moved against her, his eyes that watched her so closely. She had tended wounded men before, but somehow it had never felt quite like—this.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. The sudden sound of his voice, so deep and dark, startled her and she glanced up at him. He still watched her and the glow of his green eyes made her somehow want to fall into them, to drown in their jewel-like colour and never leave him. ‘I must be your enemy.’
Alys looked back to her work. ‘If you are indeed an enemy, you must be honourably imprisoned and questioned, perhaps ransomed back to your family. You would surely fetch a fine price, to judge by your clothes and your fine manners.’
A wry smile touched his lips. ‘You know the procedures to follow battle, then?’
‘My father has been governor of Dunboyton Castle since I was a child and has fought to help put down many rebellions against the Queen. I have learned a thing or two.’ She ripped another piece of canvas into a long strip for a bandage. ‘And I know that what was happening there on the beach had naught to do with honourable battle. I am sure Queen Elizabeth would be appalled to have such barbarity done in her name.’
She could still feel him looking at her, that burning sensation she felt deep inside of herself. ‘Is that all?’
Alys hesitated to say more. ‘My—my mother was Spanish. She often told me about her home, her family and brothers. We are not monsters, even if we come from different countries. We are all people. If they...’
She couldn’t say anything else, as tears choked her throat.
‘I will help you to recover, if I can,’ she said.
‘Then send me to your father?’
Alys had not thought that far ahead. She could only think of getting food and medicine for him, of which herbs she would need. ‘You can’t stay in here for ever.’ She tied off the end of the makeshift bandage and pushed herself to her feet. ‘I will be back. I have to find you some food, some dry clothes and blankets. I won’t be gone long.’
He reached out his hand, his fingers brushing hers and leaving a trail of tingling fire behind. ‘May I at least know the name of my saviour?’
She looked down at him, and the firelight limned him in gold. Beneath the wild hair, the paleness of his illness, he was extraordinarily handsome. The most handsome man she had ever seen. Surely such allure made him doubly dangerous. ‘I am Alys.’
‘Alys,’ he said and the word sounded like honeyed wine in his dark voice. ‘I am—Juan.’
Alys tried to smile at him. ‘I will be back, Juan. You rest now. You should be safe enough here.’
She hurried out of the small building, back out into the storm. Even the cold rain and howling wind could not frighten her. Only the emotions she had thought long buried inside of her, emotions this strange man was bringing out, could frighten her now.
* * *
He had been saved, snatched from the sea and the murderous soldiers, by an angel.
John laughed as he laid back against the rough canvas of his new bed. He would never have thought heaven would send him such a rescuer. He had done too many bad things in his life, had killed, cheated, stolen, to deserve it.
Yet, just when he thought death had come to claim him, he had opened his eyes and seen her. His angel. Alys.
She was so small, so frail-looking, with her long, rain-soaked dark hair and her pale, elfin face, yet she had the strength and determination of a warrior. So calm, so steady and unafraid. When he looked into her dark eyes, he forgot the pain, forgot the duty that had brought him to this place, forgot—everything. Because of her, he had a chance to finish his mission. He couldn’t let his angel’s sacrifice be in vain. He owed her so much.
John pushed away the waves of pain and crippling exhaustion that threatened to push him down and made himself sit up. Grimacing, he pulled off his ruined boots and stretched his freezing feet towards the fire. The warmth was something he barely remembered after months at sea and it was delicious.