Rowan's Revenge Read online

  JUNEFRANCIS

  ROWAN’S REVENGE

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Thunder clapped over the straw roof of the palloza at El Cebrero, making Kate Fletcher flinch and draw further into the folds of her tunic. Dirty and exhausted, she was partaking of the meagre rations served to the pilgrims, but the soup and bread was doing little to comfort her. For weeks she had been living in this youth’s disguise, determined to carry out her duty to her Lady, but terrified that her true identity would be revealed. Each new face posed a potential threat, and the man who had arrived shortly after her that evening was no different. Now sitting just a few feet away, she had been aware of the stranger’s gaze upon her ever since he’d entered the palloza. At first she had taken him for a Spaniard, with his olive skin and curling jet-black hair, but then their eyes had met and she experienced a vague sense of recognition. Those orbs were the deep dark blue of the Irish Sea on a sunny day and, when he stood to speak to a monk, she realised he was head and shoulders above many of the local men, giving her cause to revise her opinion.

  For a moment, she watched the two men conversing in Spanish and then dragged her gaze away, unwilling to draw more attention to herself than was necessary. Lowering her eyes to her bowl, she focused on her soup, trying to draw nourishment from the watery fluid, willing herself to be invisible.

  Suddenly she was aware of a figure at her shoulder. She glanced round, her heart missing a beat as she saw the stranger beside her. He spoke to her in Spanish, but she remained silent. He tried questioning her in French, his tone urgent, his eyes searching her face intently, but still she gave no reply. He repeated his question, this time in English, and her blood ran cold.

  With no immediate means of escape, Kate raised a finger and pointed to her open mouth. He stared at her, frowning for a moment, before understanding that she was mute. With a defeated air he passed on to interrogate other pilgrims, but his gaze returned to her every so often, curiosity burning in his eyes.

  Who was he? He had the appearance of a pilgrim, wearing the familiar homespun brown tunic and displaying the scallop badge of one having accomplished the journey to St James’s shrine at Compostela in the north-west of Spain. Yet there was nothing humble about him. Pride was written in the manner in which he had walked into the hostel. His tread had been firm, his head held high and over one broad shoulder he had carried a pair of saddlebags.

  Instantly she had found it difficult to believe his aim was to gain indulgences. The saddlebags declared that he had made the journey on horseback. As a true pilgrim, he would have hobbled through the doorway, his feet blistered and bleeding, his face scorched by the Castilian sun. As soon as he’d eaten his frugal meal, he would have sought his pallet and fallen asleep from exhaustion. Instead, he continued to navigate the room, addressing others with the same urgency he had questioned Kate. She knew she needed to make her escape, but, lacking the energy to do so, she sought her pallet and, curling into a ball, sleep claimed her. Her final prayer was that she might remain undetected through this long night.

  But her prayers were not to be answered, the nightmare returned to haunt her, and she clawed her way out of the terrifying darkness to lie panting and rubbing at the scars on her wrists, trying to calm herself, hoping that she had uttered no sound. As her breathing steadied she took in her surroundings. The grey light indicated dawn was not far off, the snores and grunts of her fellow travellers calmed her, and she turned over in an attempt to get more comfortable. It was then she realised that she was being watched.

  Despite not being able to see his profile clearly, its strength was already engraved on her memory. He was the pursuer whom she had feared would hound her and her mistress to their deaths. She had lived in trepidation of such a thing happening ever since she and Lady Catherine had left the manor in Lancashire towards the end of July 1453, almost a year ago. Was he Stanley’s man? It could explain why he appeared familiar…and yet she was convinced he had not recognised her.

  Perhaps that was not so strange. She would have been surprised if her mother, Beth Fletcher, and brother, Diccon, would have recognised her now. Kate had almost lost count of the months since she and the Lady Catherine had left England. During that time, her soft pale skin had been weathered by the sun and the wind and her flaxen hair had been shorn. Whilst crossing the Aubrac Mountains in the southeast of France, they had been attacked by brigands. A great number of their group had been killed and her Lady had been raped. Kate had only escaped such a fate by the timely arrival of an armed group of pilgrim knights. Her Lady’s packhorse had been stolen, leaving them with only the clothes they stood up in and what they had in their scrip.

  Afterwards Kate’s poor Lady, still suffering from the effects of being ravished, had taken a knife from the next hostel on the pilgrims’ way and insisted on hacking off Kate’s waist-length flaxen hair—inherited, so her mother had told her, from a Saxon princess. The Lady Catherine was convinced that by cutting Kate’s hair to just below her ears, her virtue could be saved—but a week later worse was to come.

  Suddenly Kate heard movement. He was coming over! Had she cried out during her nightmare and betrayed herself? She could make out the man’s tall figure as he approached, stepping carefully between the slumbering bodies on their pallets. Her heart thudded in her breast and her hand reached out and gripped her pilgrim’s staff. He knelt down beside her and she forced herself not to shrink from him, extremely conscious of his strength and musky male scent.

  He spoke softly; it was as she had feared, she had cried out in her sleep. Fortunately he had been unable to make out her words, but his suspicions were obviously aroused.

  She decided to pretend to be French, Lady Catherine had long prepared her to accompany her on a pilgrimage to St James’s shrine if the opportunity should arise, and the journey through that war-torn country had increased Kate’s grasp of the language, although, she was far from word perfect. ‘Je ne comprends pas!’ she said in a shaky whisper. ‘Allez-vous, s’il vous plâit!’ She made a shooing motion with her staff.

  He frowned. ‘Non, s’il vous plâit! Vous avez parlé?’

  ‘Une miracle!’ she exclaimed in a joy-filled voice.

  He muttered something under his breath, that she did not catch, before raising his voice and saying, ‘Entendez-moi! Je cherche trois femmes et un garçon. Anglais! Une vieille femme et deux jeunes femmes!’

  Her heart leapt into her throat. She had not been mistaken earlier. He was searching for three English women, one old, two young, as well as a boy. Obviously he had no idea that she and Lady Catherine had parted from Kate’s mother and brother in England and that was to the good. It meant that they must still be safe.

  ‘Pardon, m’sieur? J’ai vu beaucoup de femmes anglaises, mais pas garçons,’ said Kate with an expressive shrug.

  He responded in urgent tones, ‘Le cheval de la dame est noir et blanc.’

  Kate stiffened. The lady had a black and white horse? How could he know such a thing unless he had visited her Lady’s manor and had watched her out riding? She must act stupidly, pretend to b
elieve he had muddled up the French words for horse and hair as she had done when learning the language. ‘Pardon? La dame a les cheveux noirs et blancs?’

  ‘Non! Le cheval!’ He reached out and grasped her arm. ‘Noir et blanc…une pie.’

  A horse that was black and white like a magpie. His mention of the bird caused Kate’s mouth to go dry as she remembered a number of the birds clacking in the graveyard outside Walton-on-the-Hill church. There the four of them had received a blessing for their pilgrimage, but all the time Kate had been thinking that magpies were an ill omen—seven for a secret never to be told. Lady Catherine had no such qualms and made no secret of her plan to visit the shrine of St James to the rector. He in turn showed no surprise at the recently widowed Lady Catherine’s desire to undertake such a dangerous journey. Kate gave silent thanks to the Holy Trinity that her Lady had made no mention of their intention to part from Kate’s mother and brother at Chester.

  Nervously, Kate’s tongue darted out and moistened her lips. She needed information from him and for that she was going to chance speaking in English because her grasp of French was not sufficient for what she needed to ask. ‘You are not French, I see,’ she said in gruff and heavily accented English.

  She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. ‘I thought you did not speak English, lad. You would make a fool of me?’ His suspicion was there in his whispering tone and he grabbed her by the shoulder.

  ‘Non, m’sieur! But these women and the boy…they were afeared. I would not betray them if you are an enemy,’ she babbled.

  ‘You have seen them?’ His grip tightened.

  She winced. ‘I travelled from Le Puy in their company,’ she said sullenly, not forgetting to speak with a thick accent. ‘They had been on the road many months, visiting Canterbury before making the crossing to Calais. They encountered many dangers as they journeyed through France. I suspect, m’sieur, that your own journey has not been so…’ she hesitated as if searching for a word ‘…arduous?’

  ‘I took a pilgrim ship from England to La Coruña and from there I rode to Santiago de Compostela. I am no true pilgrim such as yourself. I had need of haste and I deem you would have done better travelling on horseback, lad.’ He reached out and, to her amazement and sweet torture, grasped her bare foot. The skin on the sole and heel had blistered and bled, but then hardened. Even so, his touch sent sensations along her nerve ends and she rattled off a rebuke in French.

  He dropped her foot and said emphatically, ‘I must find these women and the lad. You will tell me whence and where did you last see them.’

  Kate considered telling him that they had been killed in the ambush crossing the mountains, but that might not necessarily get rid of him so she decided on a distortion of the truth. ‘I left them at a Cluniac hospice. The old woman was sick unto death, and her companions would not leave her.’

  ‘Do you remember the name of the place?’ he rasped, leaning closer to her so that their faces almost touched.

  She shrugged expressively. ‘So many holy places along the way where we had our pilgrim passports signed. I cannot remember all of them.’

  ‘Think!’

  Kate decided she must send him on a wild goose chase. Clearing her throat, she said, ‘Perhaps it was at Conques, on the high hills where we saw the relics of St Foy!’ Her lips formed a moue. ‘A Romanesque church and so cool inside out of the baking sun. The saint was said to care for prisoners taken in the Spanish Wars and held captive by the Moors. When they were released, they made an altar chain of their fetters in the saint’s honour.’ There was a tremor in her voice, remembering a time when she herself had been captive and the terrible fate planned for her. ‘Is that not merveilleux, m’sieur?’

  ‘Conques is in the domain of your king,’ he retorted in a grim voice. ‘You are certain it was there you left them?’

  ‘Oui!’

  He was silent for what seemed such a long time that she felt the need to add hastily, ‘But perhaps the old woman recovered and you will not need to go all the way to Conques. They could be just a day behind me. Their aim will be the same as mine: to reach Santiago de Compostela in time for the saint’s feast day on the twenty-fifth of July.’

  She was relieved when he thanked her and wished her Godspeed. She watched him go, wishing him far away. He had roused memories that she wanted to forget. She lay down and closed her eyes, wondering what the day ahead would bring. She did not rest long. Within a short time, the other pilgrims began to stir and she sat up and slipped on her sandals and went outside.

  During the night, the storm had blown itself out and Kate feasted her eyes on a glorious dawn, watching the sun striking great banks of snowy white clouds that filled the valley below. The air was chill and she hugged herself. Then she caught sight of the man who had questioned her and a nervous excitement snaked down her spine. He was already astride a great chestnut stallion. The beast reminded her of those she had seen being led down the gangplanks of ships on to the quayside at Liverpool.

  As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned his head. For a moment his blue gaze seemed to bore into hers and then he raised a hand in farewell. She raised her own and, with a fast beating heart, watched him set out on the road that would lead him eventually to Burgos to the east. She prayed that she would reach Santiago de Compostela before he realised she had tricked him. With so many pilgrims crowding the city, surely he would not be able to find her there if he were to attempt to hunt her down.

  Master Owain ap Rowan passed beneath the gateway of Burgos. He had been all day in the saddle and was angry. The scar of the wound in his thigh throbbed, despite it being four years since the Battle of Formigny, which had resulted in England’s loss of Normandy. He was also hot in the linen shirt, padded leather japon and linen breeches beneath the homespun tunic. Until yesterday there had still been pilgrims on the road, and he had asked after the three women and boy, but had met with no luck. Today he had not seen a single pilgrim, so had enquired of the monks at Santo Domingo of the Lady Catherine Miles and the Fletchers, only to be informed that they had seen no one of their description. It had been suggested that they had either been killed by brigands crossing the mountains into Spain or had taken another route.

  Owain had no choice but to accept what the monks had said. Besides, the conviction that he had been duped had been growing on him for some time. Since he had left the palloza at El Cebrero there had come into his mind every now and again a sunburnt, delicately shaped face with blue-green eyes, framed by curling wisps of flaxen hair. It had appeared almost like a ghostly vision, and a question had framed itself in his thoughts concerning the identity of its owner. He knew he had to find the lad again, but not today. He swayed wearily in the saddle, desperate to be rid of his garments, to bathe, eat, drink and find a woman to soothe away his aches and frustrations.

  Then, amazingly, a voice called his name. ‘Owain! By all that’s holy, what are you doing here…and in that garb? Since when have you given up horse-dealing to turn pilgrim?’

  Owain could scarcely believe his ears and looked about him for the owner of the voice. Then he caught sight of a tawny-haired giant of a man, dressed as fine as a jay in a deep blue doublet and russet hose. The curve of Owain’s mouth widened into a smile. Last time he and widower Nat Milburn had met had been in Calais, which Owain had managed to reach in a mad, pain-filled ride after the defeat at Formigny. Nat had provided him with a roof over his head and paid for a physician to tend his wounds. They had first become acquainted in Liverpool where Nat had kin. Owain had been with his elder brother, Martin, delivering horses to the stables of the Stanleys.

  ‘What are you doing here, Nat? I thought you’d be visiting the fairs at Bruges and Venice. I never knew your business had spread to Castile.’

  ‘I have been to those fair cities and even had several gowns made for my sister in the latest fashion…a reward for her taking care of my offspring. There I renewed another old acquaintance who dwells here in Burgos. But you have not answ
ered my question. What are you doing here?’ The older man’s grey eyes were deeply curious.

  Owain barely hesitated before saying, ‘I am here on Sir Thomas Stanley’s business. I seek the Lady Catherine Miles and a family called Fletcher.’

  Nat’s expression altered. ‘I pity that lady being married to Sir Roger Miles. My aunt in Liverpool whispered rumours about his dark dealings in my ear eighteen months ago when I visited the port. But why do you seek the Lady here?’

  ‘Sir Roger is dead.’

  Nat sucked in his cheeks and then exhaled. ‘By the Holy Trinity, that’s the best news I’ve heard for some time. Could not bear to be in the man’s company, but heard he managed to worm his way into the King’s good graces.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ said Owain with a grim smile. ‘I’ll tell you all once you’ve led me to a decent tavern.’

  Nat grinned. ‘I can do better than a tavern, friend. That acquaintance I mentioned invited me to stay in his most splendid house, so cool and spacious…built in the Moorish design, I may add.’ He patted the stallion’s neck, glancing up at Owain. ‘I see you still have Merlin. You might be able to do some horse-dealing with them. They have a stable of fine Castilian and Andalusian horses at their estate in the country. Although, you’d have to stay a while if you wish to meet them. A kinsman of theirs has died in Salamanca, so they have gone to give comfort and support to his wife and children. I’m certain the fact that your great-grandmother was Castilian will not go amiss in your dealings with them.’

  Owain’s expression was regretful. ‘Alas! I can stay only the one night.’

  Nat’s ruddy face showed disappointment. ‘Another time perhaps. This way.’ He led Owain through the bustling streets, regaling him with the legends of Burgos, the city of El Cid, whose favourite warhorse had borne the hero’s dead body, strapped in the saddle, on one last charge against the Moors.