Dragon's Court. Joanna Makepeace
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he called gaily, “are you willing to offer me the apple of temptation?”
He had been carrying a canvas pack of some sort which he had deposited at the foot of the tree as he stood, hands on hips, regarding her. He was possibly a travelling chapman, she decided. She did not know him and if he could be persuaded to rescue her before anyone came who did, she would be at a greater advantage when explaining to her mother about the tear in her gown.
She said tartly, “You can see surely, fellow, that all the apples are picked. My hem is caught on that branch. Please free me.”
He looked round for the offending branch and made a sign.
“I see it. Stay where you are, quite still. That branch you are resting on looks somewhat too frail to hold your weight much longer. Hang on to the trunk.”
Did he think her a fool? she thought dourly. Of course she intended hanging on for grim life. Once he started to shake that lower branch it could unseat her.
She saw now, with some trepidation as he approached the tree, that he was a big man, powerfully built, and she prayed he would not use too much effort in disentangling her hem and cause the bough to shake further and dislodge her. In actual fact, he proved to be surprisingly gentle and dextrous. He was tall enough to reach up and free the hem without needing to climb and Anne was surprised when he called up to her that the material was now free.
“You should manage to climb down, mistress, unless you are scared to do so. If so, I’ll come up and fetch you.”
“Certainly not,” she snapped. “I can manage. I’ve been climbing trees all my life.”
“Indeed?” The voice sounded amused and she noted that it was not a peasant’s voice, but deep pitched and without obvious dialect. Certainly he did not come from Northamptonshire, she determined. Possibly if he were a travelling chapman he would have lost his own dialect and adopted others as he moved around from place to place.
Now that she was free to descend she would rather have done so in privacy. She peered down uncertainly as the newcomer stood slightly away from the tree trunk now, hands on hips, regarding her. There was no help for it, she must climb down under his amused gaze. She could hardly dismiss him, as she would have done had he been one of the Rushton men.
It was more difficult than she had thought, for she had stiffened during the uncomfortable moments she had spent on her precarious perch. She almost fell the last few feet. The stranger stepped immediately close and, putting his arms around her waist, drew her gently to the ground.
She stood for a moment with her back to him, leaning against the trunk, then breathlessly swung round to thank him.
“That was well done,” she said grudgingly. “You can let go of me now. I am quite safe.”
Grinning, he did as she requested and made to move back to his pack.
“I suppose you can climb well?” she demanded and he turned, eyebrows raised to regard her again.
“Tolerably well, mistress. Like you I have been climbing trees for most of my life though not, I must say, so much recently.”
She chose to ignore his pithy though oblique reference to her youth. She pointed upwards to the topmost branch.
“Can you get up and rescue the kitten?”
He shaded his eyes again then distinguished the animal shaded by the leaves now turning from green to golden brown.
“I suppose so,” he said and she noted again the tinge of amusement in his tone, “but in my experience cats usually manage to descend without help if you leave them alone. He managed to get up there by himself, he’ll come down by himself.”
She drew in a sharp breath of annoyance. “Why do you think I went up there, if not to fetch the kitten? He is very young and frightened. He ran up when my brother’s dog barked at him.”
“Ah, in that case—” He grinned and, throwing back his cloak and hood, approached the tree again and began to climb steadily.
She stepped back to watch him, a little alarmed now for his safety. He was no youth and might well not be so agile as Ned. Perhaps she should not have ordered him to climb. He seemed skilful enough, swinging easily from branch to branch after first testing to check whether each would stand his weight, which was considerable. The kitten seemed reluctant to trust him at first and retreated along the top branch, mewing pitifully.
Anne heard him utter a quick curse then he leaned closer to the frightened animal and began to murmur to it beneath his breath. After one or two moments the kitten allowed itself to be lifted up and he thrust it into the opening of his leathern jack and began to descend nimbly. Landing gracefully for so big a man, he handed the quivering bundle of black fur to her with a little bow.
“Safe and sound if still a little alarmed. Is he yours? You must keep your brother’s dog under control.”
Her tone was haughty as she replied, “He is one of our courtyard cat’s litter. Cato only wanted to play. He’s little more than a puppy himself.”
The man was looking at her appraisingly and she flushed darkly. How dared he stare so insolently? Obviously she was not looking her best for she could feel that the wind had caught tendrils of her hair and pulled them clear of her white linen cap and her gown and cloak had not been improved by close contact with the tree trunk. Impatiently she pushed back her hair and pulled her hood into place.
He had a broad, open countenance, dark skinned as one would expect of a man who had stayed long out of doors, particularly during the summer months. His forehead was high and broad and his nose beaklike, a little craggy. His most attractive features were his wide-spaced grey eyes and a full, generous mouth, surprising in that very masculine face. The chin was firm and well chiselled and bore a decided cleft. It was an interesting face, she decided, and tried to guess his age. There were little laughter lines around the eyes and deep clefts from nostrils to the corners of his mouth. He was well past his twentieth birthday, she thought, but he was not old, not even middle aged.
For his part he was in no doubt about her age. She must be sixteen now or almost so. The last time he had seen her she had been still a child, clinging to her mother’s skirts; now true womanhood was almost upon her. Like her lady mother, she was dark. The thick masses of her hair streaming below her cap well past her waist had not been braided and the autumn sun glinted on the waving tresses, touching the blue-black gloss with touches of gold.
She had her mother’s creamy complexion, too, and a lovely oval-shaped face with strongly marked but fine features and her father’s startlingly blue eyes. She stood uncertainly, holding the kitten which was wriggling and scratching in her too-tight hold, at the same time trying to clutch the billowing folds of her brown frieze cloak about her slender form.
He had expected her to be tall and slim, for both her parents, Sir Guy Jarvis and Mistress Margaret, her mother, were tall and he could see that her young breasts, despite her efforts to hold her cloak close and hide her form from him, were taut and firm, pushing against the stuff of her russet gown. They would soon be looking for a husband for her, he thought, and sighed a little, inwardly. That would be no easy task for Sir Guy, under the present prevailing circumstances.
She moved a trifle uncertainly as if she was not sure how to dismiss him.
“You have come far, sir?”
White teeth gleamed in an answering smile in that dark complexioned face. “From the north,” he said evasively.
She hesitated. “My father is Sir Guy Jarvis and my home, Rushton Manor, only a short distance from here. You have done me a service. If you come to the manor I am sure our servants can provide you with a meal. You must be hungry.”
He gave her that little odd bow in answer which was in no way servile.
“Thank you, Mistress Jarvis.”
He shouldered his bag and moved beside her down the path until they reached the gatehouse and passed into the courtyard of Rushton. The