Christmas At The Tudor Court: The Queen's Christmas Summons / The Warrior's Winter Bride

He nodded again, but Alys wasn’t sure. He did look very pale, almost grey beneath his sun-brown. She slid her arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit. He was very lean, but she could feel the strength of his muscles beneath his sodden clothes. He must have been no idle nobleman. His jaw set in a grim line, and his skin went even paler, but he was able to push himself to his feet. He swayed there precariously and Alys braced her shoulder against his ribs to help hold him up.

She was not a tall woman and had inherited her mother’s small-boned, delicate build, but carrying around baskets of laundry and digging in the kitchen garden had not been in vain. Between the two of them, he soon had his balance again.

‘We must hurry,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

They made their way through the sand dunes, crouching low to avoid being seen. The rain had slowed down and the clouds slid back and away from the moon, which was good and bad. She could see her way a bit clearer, but that meant so could the soldiers on the beach. She found the second set of stairs etched into the cliff, around the curve of the beach and more hidden. The steps went only up to the old abbey and were seldom used.

‘Can you climb here?’ she said. She looked up at him and saw that his face, starkly carved like an old Roman statue, was set in lines of determination. He nodded and closely followed her as she climbed the stairs. He swayed dangerously at one point, almost falling backward, and Alys caught his arm and pulled him up with her.

At last they reached their destination, the ruins of the ancient abbey. Alys had gone there often when she was a child, sneaking away from her nursemaids to pick flowers and just lie in the grass, staring up at the sky through the crumbling old stone arches. Sometimes her mother would take here there, too, for picnics and games.

It felt like another world to her from that of the crowded castle, a world of peace and beauty. But sometimes the sight of the abandoned cloisters seemed to make her mother sad. What had once been a grand and glorious place, with a soaring church and dozens of monks and priests, was abandoned and silent.

Alys had never seen it quite like this, with rain pounding down on the old stones, lightning casting an eerie glow through the empty window frames. The wind, howling around the collapsed vaults of the roof, sounded like the cries of the banished monks.

If they were there now, watching with ghostly eyes, Alys begged them for their help. She wanted to cry, to scream, but she knew she couldn’t. She needed all her strength now.

She took a deep breath of the heavy, cold air and made herself focus carefully on what she was doing. The wounded man had walked so bravely up the stone steps and along the overgrown path to the abbey, though she could tell it pained him greatly. He held himself very stiffly, placing his steps carefully, and once or twice she heard a muffled moan. She gently touched his cheek and found it burning hot. He needed rest.

‘Almost there now,’ she said encouragingly, trying to smile.

‘You should leave me here,’ he answered. ‘I am away from the soldiers, I can hide from them on my own.’

‘You 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. Almost as wondrous as Aly’s touch on his hand.

He reached for the packet of papers. Their oilskin pouch had kept them relatively intact, their coded symbols and words still legible. He could recreate them before he delivered them to Walsingham. But Peter’s letter had not fared quite as well. He could see it was in Spanish and could make out a few words. Perhaps it would be easier when it was light.

It had been so important to Peter that it be delivered, but to whom? Peter had often spoken of some friend, someone in England, who would know what to do when he found them. John would have to track them down now.

Another wave of crushing dizziness washed over him and he couldn’t quite resist it this time. He hid the packet under the edge of the canvas bedding and laid back down. The ceiling above him was painted with a scene of angels peering down from the shelter of fluffy white clouds, an unexpected scene of beauty in such a strange place. John studied them as sleep overtook him, and he noticed that one of them had large brown eyes and a wary smile. Just like an angel named Alys...

Chapter Six

‘What are you looking for, my lady?’

Alys spun around, startled by the sound of a maidservant’s voice in the doorway of the stillroom. She was filling her baskets with the herbs she needed, along with clean linen bandages and some wine, and was so absorbed in her own thoughts she heard little beyond the empty chamber.

‘Some of the men are in need of healing poultices and tisanes after—after what happened last night,’ she said. She remembered all too well the terrible scene on the beach and swallowed her fear to try and smile.

She knew she was not the only one affected by what had happened. The maid’s eyes were red-rimmed, her apron askew. ‘Oh, my lady, ’twas terrible! Will there be more of them, do you think? Will they reach the castle?’

Alys saw a flashing image in her mind, a scene of mayhem as soldiers stormed through the corridors of Dunboyton, tearing her life apart. Nay—she would never let such a thing happen. ‘I’m sure Bingham’s men have moved on to seek new prey. There will be little here for them and we will soon be as quiet as usual.’

‘But the Spanish...’

‘The Armada is destroyed!’ Alys cried, thinking of those poor, starving wretches cut down on the beach. Of Juan, his beautiful eyes and his wounded body. ‘They could not hurt even a seagull now. We must go about our tasks as always. Is my father’s dinner ready?’

‘I don’t know, my lady.’

‘Well, go see about it, please. Here is some mint for the lamb stew. Perhaps that will tempt his appetite a bit. I must go see to the garden.’

Alys took up her basket and hurried out of the stillroom. She could tell that most of the servants were trying to go about their tasks as always, but there were still soldiers loitering in the gardens and the great room, and the air seemed heavy and oppressive. She went to fetch her parcel of clothes and linens, and made her way towards the garden, avoiding anyone’s gaze.

She caught a glimpse of her father in the great hall and despite her worries the sight of him made her pause. He sat slumped in his chair near the fire, his head resting on his hand, and he looked so tired. So—old, suddenly. She left her baskets near the door, out of sight, and made her way to his side.

‘Father?’ she said and at first she feared he didn’t hear her. He shook his head and slowly looked up at her. ‘Father, are you unwell?’

‘Nay, Alys my butterfly, I am well enough,’ he answered, his voice tired and weak.

‘Is your stomach aching again? I can mix you a tisane...’ She had become used to mixing the certain combination of herbs that sometimes soothed him, as he had been plagued with illness ever since her mother died.

‘It is no worse than usual.’ He gave a deep sigh and stared back into the fire. ‘I have grown useless, Alys. I could not even do anything to stop that wanton slaughter last night.’

Alys’s heart ached at his words. She knelt down beside his chair and pressed her hand to his trembling arm. ‘Oh, Father. They say Bingham carried a royal order from Fitzwilliam, you could not go against that.’

‘Royal order,’ he snorted. ‘Men like that follow no order but their own. Ransoms could have been made, perhaps, or valuable information obtained from those men. All for naught.’

Alys thought of Juan. Once he was recovered, what information could he give them? Perhaps if he could tell her father...

She shook her head. That had to be a secret for now, her secret, until Bingham’s men were truly gone and she had found out what she could from Juan herself. ‘Terrible things do happen in battle.’

‘That was no battle, it was a slaughter of starving men who were defeated weeks ago. Thank the stars your mother was not here to see such wickedness. And I pray that you will never see such again, either. That you never see true battle.’

‘That seems unlikely, Father. I am no warrior, am I?’ She kissed his cheek and made herself give him a bright smile. ‘I am sure Dunboyton will be as isolated as ever now that the ships have gone. I’ll finish my tasks and dine with you this evening. There is lamb stew and a new apple pie.’

Her father patted her hand, but she could tell he was far away from her again, staring into the fire as if he could see images in the flames no one else glimpsed. She wondered if he saw her mother there, her Spanish mother.

Alys quickly fetched her baskets and hurried out of the castle. Juan had been alone for hours now and she worried what she would find at the abbey. Perhaps he had become feverish, or mayhap wandered away and was captured. She knew she should not be so worried for a man she did not know, a man who could bring much danger on to her, but still she hurried her steps towards him.

It was still cold and windy, but the rain had gone. She avoided the beach. They said the villagers had pillaged what they could from the sailors’ bodies and from the cargo that had washed ashore from the ships, and the bodies were buried in the dunes. The English regiments had moved on along the coast, but she couldn’t bear to see the place where she had witnessed such horrors. If she could help Juan, even though he was only one man...

Well, it was all she could do for some atonement, something for her mother.

As she came over the top of the cliffs, the ruins of the abbey came into view. The spires still reached towards the slate-grey skies, even though their walls were crumbling, one tiny spot of beauty left out of ruin. The empty windows and old walkways seemed as empty as always.

What would she find when she went to search for Juan?

The door to the old dairy was closed and no smoke curled from the chimney. It looked as abandoned as the rest of the cloisters.

Alys slowly pushed the door open. She held her breath, listening for any sign of life, but there was not even a rustle of noise. ‘Holà...’ she called tentatively. Her words ended on a scream as her arm was suddenly grabbed and she was dragged into the room.

A hard, strong hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her words and her breath. Cold terror washed over her. She twisted frantically against her bonds, driving her elbow into her captor’s ribs. She must have inadvertently hit a wound, for she was suddenly free and her captor stumbled back a step.

Alys whirled around, and saw it was Juan who had grabbed her. His face was grey, streaked with sweat, and his eyes were filled with a wild glow, like an animal cornered. Anger replaced her fear. Had she not done all she could to help him, despite everything? How dare he frighten her so!

‘I am trying to help you, at great risk, and this is the thanks I get!’ she cried. She scooped up some of the tumbled linen that had fallen from her basket when she dropped it and tossed it at his head. She knew she should still be scared; she had seen men in the aftershocks of battle before, they didn’t always know where they were. And Juan was much larger and stronger than she was. But somehow, her fear was gone.

He caught the linen in one hand and the wild light in his eyes faded. A look of horror flashed across his face. ‘Forgive me, señorita. I didn’t realise it was you, I thought—it was most ungentlemanly. I...’ His face went very white and he sagged against the wall.

Alys remembered his wounded shoulder, all he had been through, and she felt terrible for shouting at him, deserved or not. She rushed to his side and took his arm. He felt much too warm, as if his fever had not abated. ‘Of course. I could have been one of Bingham’s soldiers, though I dare say they would have made much more noise. Here, sit down, you are feverish still. I’ll build up the fire.’

He went with her, though she sensed he went most reluctantly, trying to hold back, as if ashamed of his behaviour, his loss of control. ‘Why have you not summoned the soldiers yourself?’ he asked.

Alys shrugged, concentrating on stoking the fire. ‘I do not like Bingham and his barbaric methods. He is a brute, who does not follow the proper procedures for battle. He just enjoys a bloodbath.’ She sat back on her heels and watched as the flames caught and crackled, sending out their warmth into the cold, stone room. She nodded, as if she had decided on something. ‘And my mother...’

‘Ah, yes, you said she was Spanish,’ he said. ‘So was mine.’

She turned to look at him, wondering that there was someone else there like her, someone who might understand what it felt to be caught ever between two worlds. ‘And your father?’

His jaw tightened. ‘He was English.’

‘Is that why you were with the Armada? For your mother?’

He was silent for a long moment, until she was sure he would not answer her. He looked like a rock, a cave made of stone she could not penetrate. ‘I was there for many reasons. You would find my tale dull.’

Alys thought of his hidden packet of papers, that strange jumble of letters and symbols she had glimpsed for only an instant before he hid it again. She was sure the very last word to describe him would be dull. But she could tell he should not talk more today, the effort of holding his secrets had made him pale again and he shivered. She would have to discover more later.

Once the fire was blazing again, she gathered up her tumbled supplies and went to kneel beside him. He gave her a wary glance.

‘I brought you some proper blankets and pillows, not much like a real bed, but better than that old canvas,’ she said. ‘Also, a clean shirt, and some bandages and healing herbs from my stillroom. Oh, and wine and bread, a bit of cheese and smoked fish. You look as if you haven’t had a real meal in some time, so you must eat very slowly.’

He examined the supplies she laid out with a strange look on his face, almost a wonder, as if she had brought an array of gold and rubies. ‘Where did you get all of this?’

‘I told you, the herbs came from my stillroom and the food from the kitchen, of course. No one saw me gather it.’ She measured out a mixture of feverfew and rosemary, carefully crushing them together and mixing them into some wine.

‘You stole this? For me?’

Alys laughed. ‘Certainly not. They are mine to take, since my father is governor of the castle. Except for the shirt. I did take that from him, but I will sew him a new one.’

‘Then where am I, exactly?’

Alys glanced up from her herbs and saw a frown on his face. ‘Dunboyton Castle in Galway. Did you not know?’

He shook his head. ‘Our pilot died days ago and much of our navigational equipment was damaged. No one was well enough to steer, so we just—drifted. Until we followed another ship into a bay, trying to shelter from the gale.’

Alys tried to remember all the jumbled stories that had flown around when the ships were sighted. ‘Aye, they did say there were two that went down, but there seems no sign of the other.’

‘There were no survivors, then?’

Alys went back to her mixture, making a new one for the poultices. She did not want to tell him too much yet, not when he was still ill. ‘I don’t know. If there were, they weren’t brought to the castle. Here, let me see to your shoulder. The bandages will need changing. Drink this.’

Juan drew back, glaring suspiciously at her array of herbs. ‘What is that?’

‘Merely feverfew, some yarrow, a bit of valerian, things of that sort,’ she answered. ‘It will help the fever and aid your blood in healing itself. I will make you a tea of chamomile later, to help you sleep. It is not poison, I promise. Why would I go to so much trouble to bring you here if I was just going to poison you?’

He laughed, and it sounded as if he had not done so in a long time. It was like drawing back a shutter and letting the light and warmth in again. ‘A fine point, señorita.’

‘You’ll have to take off your shirt.’