Christmas At The Tudor Court: The Queen's Christmas Summons / The Warrior's Winter Bride. Amanda McCabe
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Could it be in flames, too?
Much to her relief, when she came over the top of the hill and glimpsed the old stones of the abbey, she saw all was quiet there. Perhaps too quiet? There was no smoke from the chimney of the dairy, no sign of any life at all.
‘Juan? Are you here?’ she called as she pushed open the door. But she knew even as she said the words that he was gone. There was only the chill staleness of abandonment about the room again.
It was almost as if he had never been there at all.
Alys tiptoed to the middle of the chamber and turned in a circle to take it all in. The fire was gone, leaving only ashes in the grate, the blankets of his makeshift bed folded and piled in a corner. There were no clothes. Had it truly been a dream? Had he been a dream?
Alys closed her eyes, and in her imagination she remembered their kiss. The fire and sweetness of it, the way it made her feel as if she could fly free into the sunshine. She thought of his sea-green eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. The deep, rich sound of his laughter.
Nay. It had not been a dream. But perhaps it had been her imagining, those feelings, that smile. It had not meant to him what it had to her. How could it?
She opened her eyes and saw that the room was not entirely abandoned. She glimpsed something perched atop the old milking stool. As she moved closer, she saw it was the small block of wood he had been carving. It was not blank now, though, but formed into the delicate shape of an angel. Her pointed wings were etched with elegant feathers, her hands clasped before the folds of her robe, her expression one of sweet smiling. Her long hair tumbled over her shoulders, a whisper of a halo around her head.
Alys lifted it up and examined it closely, as if it could tell her the secrets of Juan, where he had gone, who he truly was. She remembered how he had called her his angel, his merciful rescuer, but she feared she was no angel. She was too frightened, too angry at his sudden departure from her life to find any such heavenly serenity.
And this carved angel was mute. Alys tucked her into the hidden pocket of her skirt and, as she did so, something fell from the tip of its carved wing and fell with a clink to the floor. A beam of moonlight gleamed on it.
Alys stooped to pick it up. It was the gold ring she had seen so often on Juan’s finger. Now, up close, she saw the band was worn with use. There was something etched on its face, but she could not make it out in the shadows.
‘Where is he?’ she whispered as she turned the ring over on her palm. Who was he, really? Such desperate longings rose up in her to know, yet she feared she never would now. He was gone and whatever he was to her was gone with him.
She slid the ring on to her finger, and ran to the door as if she could look hard enough to find him again. Yet she knew she would not see him, no matter how far she ran or how hard she looked. He was gone, vanished from her life as quickly as he had appeared. That glimpse of excitement and adventure she had with him, the fire of his kiss, the feeling of not being alone at last—it was gone.
She had known such a moment would soon come. He could not stay hidden here at the abbey for ever. Yet losing him so quickly hurt far more than she would have expected. It was like an arrow through her chest, almost a physical pain.
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