Christmas At The Tudor Court: The Queen's Christmas Summons / The Warrior's Winter Bride. Amanda McCabe
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the monks who once lived here. On some nights, when the moon is bright, they go in procession, chanting through the old cloisters. Some of the maids say they have even seen lights up here, moving along the cliffs.’
‘Have you ever seen them?’
Alys shook her head as she finished her nursing ministrations. ‘Never. My mother said I was too practical to see the world beneath our own, that I was too concentrated on my everyday tasks.’
He smiled at her, and it was meltingly beautiful. ‘And are you? Practical, Alys?’
Alys smiled back. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. His smile looked like something she had been waiting to see all her life and she wanted to fall into it and be lost. ‘I suppose I am, though I don’t mind a pretty song or two when the jongleurs come to Dunboyton.’ She offered him the clean shirt. ‘Did the ghosts come to visit you last night?’
‘Not yet, but I have no fear of them. I grew up in my father’s house, which was also once an abbey, and there were ghosts aplenty there. Here cannot be much different.’
He tried to slip the shirt over his head, but he was still moving stiffly and the sleeve caught. Alys moved to help him and felt the soft brush of his hair, the warmth of his body against her. ‘Have you been to many places since you left your father’s house?’
He smiled up at her again, but now it was rueful. ‘Many lands indeed. The Low Countries, France, Portugal...’
‘I fear I have never left here. My father was sent here as governor when I was a child. Dunboyton is beautiful, but rather small, I fear, and my knowledge of the world must come from books and the stories of visitors.’
He looked into the fire as he tied the laces of the shirt, a wistful frown replacing his smile. ‘I would have liked a real home, I think.’
‘And I think I would have liked a bit of adventure.’ Alys took up the wine and food from the basket and held out the loaf of bread. ‘In exchange for my help, Señor Juan, I insist you tell me all about Lisbon and Paris. What they wear there, what they eat, their buildings and shops...’
Juan laughed. ‘So tales are your price, my rescuer? One story for every bite of cheese?’
‘If they are good stories, I may even bring you a pie or two. But you must still eat slowly and carefully. I don’t want my efforts to come to nothing if you become ill again.’
‘I am quite sure I will find my health quickly again, thanks to you.’ He peered at her curiously as he sliced off a bit of cheese and slid it past his sensual lips. ‘You are surely an angel.’
Alys turned away, flustered. ‘I am sure my household would disagree with you. They say I am too bossy.’ In fact, it would soon be time for her to oversee dinner. She poured out a measure of wine and mixed in a spoonful of valerian to help him rest. ‘Here, you should drink this. I have to go now and see to my father’s dinner, or I shall be missed. But I will be back later to see if you are well.’
‘And to claim your first story?’
Alys laughed. ‘And that. It had best be an amusing one.’
She gathered up her baskets and hurried out of the old dairy, making sure the door was firmly shut and no one watched her. It was quiet on the path along the cliffs that led back to Dunboyton, giving Alys too much time to think about Juan. About how shockingly handsome he was beneath the beard and sun-brown of his time at sea, like no one else she had ever seen in real life. He was like a hero or ancient warrior in a sonnet, all elegant, quiet strength. He spoke very well, too, his words polished and educated, his accent fine. She couldn’t help but wonder more about his past. Where had he really come from? What had driven him on to those ships? He held many, many secrets, she was sure of that.
She knew she should be frightened of him. Certainly she should tell her father about him immediately. But something, some part of a fairy instinct her mother had claimed she lacked, told her that his secrets were not evil ones. He was a complicated man, yes, but not a wicked one.
At least she hoped he was not, that her trust in him was not misplaced. And he had called her his angel, in a sweet, wondering tone she had never heard before. She liked him thinking of her in that way. The memory of it made her laugh and then blush when she thought of how warm and smooth his bare skin was when she touched it. Aye, she was in danger of being overtaken by her emotions, for the first time in her life, and she could not let that happen. She had to be very careful, indeed, and find out for sure what Juan’s true purpose was there. She prayed with all her might it was a good one. It looked as if her whole future depended on it.
* * *
When Alys was gone, the small room, which had felt so warm and welcoming while she was there, seemed to close around him. Yet he dared not go outside, not until he was strong enough to face any foe again.
John opened the door a crack and stared out into the night, and somehow its starlit beauty, its silence, made him recall too sharply the scenes of the past weeks. The bloody battles, the freezing, starving days on the ships, watching poor Peter—and so many other men—die. If not for Alys, he would be among them. He would be mouldering in a hastily dug grave on the beach and his quest to restore the Huntley name would be at a terrible end.
Aye, he owed her so very much. She declared she was not an angel, but he knew differently. When he had opened his eyes to see her face, to look into her dark eyes and hear her low, sweet, reassuring voice, it was like being raised into the bright light once more. He had a new chance at life, if he could make it safely to court, and he owed it all to her.
He thought of the way she took such care of his wounds, her cool, calm demeanour, her gentle smile. She had saved a man, a stranger, and taken care of him with no sign of fear. Such remarkable courage and kindness, such as he had never seen before in either woman or man. Aye, of course she was an angel.
He thought of foolish Peter and the letters he had written so fervently, even in his final days. John wondered if it was a woman Peter wrote to, a woman who had stolen his heart, who shared the cause that made a martyr of him. It would explain his worshipful expression, his adamant insistence that he would see the person he wrote to once more.
Aye—perhaps a woman had once helped Peter, as Alys had helped him. The thought gave him pause. He knew he could not lose his heart so fervently, or at all. His work was still incomplete. But he did want Alys to know how she had helped him. How she had changed him.
He reached for a small block of wood from the stack of fuel for the fireplace, and studied its angles and shape carefully. He had once spent long hours waiting for battle, or aboard ship, in carving, he was sure he could remember how to do it now. This piece of wood would work, and it would definitely help pass the time as he recovered his full strength and plotted his return to court.
It would also remind him of Alys in the long, quiet hours until then.
Alys made her way along the path to the abbey the next morning, carrying a large hamper of fresh supplies. No one had noticed her slipping out of the castle not long after first light. Bingham’s men had all marched off to find more shipwrecked sailors further down the coast and all seemed quiet again. But Dunboyton was not yet quite back to normal. Everyone was still too unsettled, too excited by the violent interruption to their daily routines. The maids still cried into their aprons, the pages still carried around kitchen knives ‘just in case’ and everyone jumped at the merest loud noise.
The maids would no doubt be relieved not to have their lady watching them as they whispered together over their kettles and dusting cloths instead of working. And she had not seen her father all night or morning, he was shut up in his library with his steward and the captain of his guards. There was no one to see her pack up wine and food, gather up bandages and herbs from the stillroom. At least she truly hoped no one had.
Alys glanced over her shoulder and saw