MAIDEN in the Tudor Court: His Runaway Maiden / Pirate's Daughter, Rebel Wife. June Francis

was travel-stained and smelly. The worry of it all quite made her lose her appetite and imbibe more wine than usual.

      ‘Ach! Master Appleby, you haven’t eaten enough to keep a sparrow alive,’ said Alex, staring across the table at the slender face made rosy by wind and wintry sun. ‘You have proved your stamina equal to mine in the last few days, so what is it that has ruined your taste for food now we are nearing journey’s end?’

      ‘Would you say I have proved myself as good as many a man?’ The words were slurred as she swirled the mulled wine in her cup.

      Alex’s eyes narrowed. ‘There is no need for you to prove yourself to me. Although I suppose in the circumstances it is natural for you to do so.’

      ‘What circumstances?’ she muttered, staring at him from beneath drooping eyelids as she reached for the wine.

      He did not answer her question, but moved the pitcher beyond her reach. ‘You will want a clear head when you reach London,’ he said.

      ‘London,’ she uttered drowsily. ‘There all will change between us.’ She yawned and closed her eyes and her head nodded.

      Alex reached forward and cupped her chin before her face could land in the bowl of soup. He stood up, eased himself around the table and managed to place an arm beneath her knees. He lifted her and carried her over to the bed. There he drew back the bedcovers and laid her down before tucking them in round her. Then he went and sat in a chair and brooded on their situation and what to do when they arrived in London. Would she volunteer the truth at last?

      He reached for his cloak and wrapped it round him and prepared himself for a long night.

      At some point he must have dozed off, because he was roused by the sound of a woman sobbing. Forcing his eyelids open, he pushed himself out of the chair and went over to the bed.

      ‘What is troubling you?’ he asked gently.

      She did not respond, but continued to weep. By the dying light of the fire he could see that her eyes were still closed. Suddenly, she ceased crying and, instead, started to speak. He lowered his head in an attempt to catch the words.

      ‘Harry, where are you, Harry? Where are they taking you? Don’t leave me alone with her!’ Her voice dropped and he had to bring his head even closer to hers. ‘Papa, listen to me. It was not my fault! I wanted to save Mama, but she would not let me near her. She would force that vile potion down my throat and Edward stood watching and laughing.’ She fell silent a moment and then she spoke again. ‘Edward, keep away from me! Do not touch me! It is wrong!’ she cried. ‘Papa, listen to me. I am telling the truth. I am not mad. Oh, why don’t you believe me? Why can’t you love me like you did Harry and Mama?’ Suddenly she sat up and Alex had to draw away from her. Her hat fell off, along with her cap, and her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. A small hand shot out and seized hold of Alex. ‘You must find Harry!’ she cried.

      Alex was deeply disturbed by her distress. ‘You need not fear. I will find him,’ he assured her.

      ‘Good,’ she murmured, subsiding.

      Only when he thought she had fallen asleep again did Alex make a move to remove the hand that rested on his thigh. Her fingers tightened about his and she rolled over and rested her head against his leg. He could not resist stroking her hair or brushing her lips with his own. She let out a wine-scented breath against his mouth. He remained where he was for a long time, caressing the side of her face with a gentle hand until he was certain that this time she was truly asleep. Then he managed to free his hand and return to the chair. He wondered if, when she woke, she would remember what had taken place. He needed to discover how her brother had died—only then would he know whether he would be able to keep his word to her. As for Edward Fustian, the world would be a better place without him. He closed his eyes, but it was some time before he fell asleep.

      Rosamund woke just as it was getting light and turned over on to her side. Stretching out a hand, she felt for the man she expected to find at her side. Empty! She sat up and the pain in her head thumped in rhythm with the increased beat of her heart. She was terribly thirsty and could not remember getting into bed or aught of their conversation last evening. Where was Master Nilsson? Had he carried her to bed because she was drunk and, disgusted with her behaviour, left her to sleep alone? For this to happen now utterly depressed her spirits.

      Her eyes pierced the dimness of the bedchamber and she was able to make out a figure in a chair. Now she became aware of his steady breathing and she slid soundlessly off the bed. She felt dizzy and her throat was tight with misery. This time there really was a need for a parting of the ways. For him to choose a chair rather than remain in the bed spoke much of how he must feel towards her.

      She searched for her outer garments and boots and, by some miracle, found them without waking him. She did not pause to put them on, but cautiously went over to the door and unlocked it. She opened it a fraction, managed to ease herself through the gap and closed the door behind her. She would travel the rest of the way to London on foot; if God forgave her and answered her prayer, then she would find her godmother’s house before dark. If she and Master Nilsson were ever to meet again, she prayed that he would not recognise his erstwhile travelling companion in Mistress Rosamund Appleby.

      Alex woke suddenly and wondered what it was that had disturbed him. It was morning and his gaze darted to the bed. He saw that the bedclothes had been flung back and the bed was empty. He found the door unlocked and hurried downstairs, hoping to find Mistress Appleby taking the fresh air to clear her head. There was no sign of her and he hurried to the stables. His horse was still there, but she was nowhere to be found. Why had she deserted him now? Had she not been fully asleep when he had kissed her? He could think of no other reason why she had taken fright and cursed himself for giving in to temptation. He saddled up his horse and knew he had to find her before she ended up in trouble.

      Rosamund thanked the carter who had been kind enough to give her a lift on the last stage of her journey and limped along Aldersgate Street. She glanced up at the threatening sky and knew she had to find her godmother’s house before nightfall. But first she needed a gown to wear. Perhaps she could exchange her cloak for a used gown. Surely there would be a used clothes dealer somewhere in London? But where exactly? She passed St Paul’s Cathedral and Paternoster Row where shops sold rosaries in their hundreds. She paused to gaze inside a workshop and marvelled to see books being produced on a printing press. She felt certain Master Nilsson would have been interested to see the printers at work because it had become obvious to her that he was an educated man. But she must not think of him, she had to hurry.

      A short while later she had still not found a usedclothes dealer. She glanced up at the darkening sky and felt the cold sting of a snowflake touch her cheek; then a positive flurry of snowflakes threatened to blind her. She hurried, but soon realised that she was lost. Suddenly she heard a slithering sound and heavy breathing, then came a suppressed cough. ‘Is there someone there?’ she called. ‘Can you help me?’

      A figure loomed out of a doorway a few yards ahead. ‘Depends on whether yer can make it worth me while,’ said the man.

      ‘What do you mean?’ she asked with a tremor in her voice.

      ‘What do yer think I mean?’ he sneered.

      A hand shot out and seized her arm. Her heart gave a frightening lurch and she managed to tear herself from his grasp. She made to run, but he caught hold of her cloak and dragged her back against him. Her hat went flying as he pinned her arms to her sides.

      ‘What is it you want?’ she cried.

      ‘Coin to buy bread and a pallet for the night,’ he replied.

      ‘I have none. I’m just a poor lad who’s come from the country to try to earn a crust.’

      ‘Then I’ll have to take yer cloak,’ said that voice in her ear. His foul breath caused her to gag. ‘And don’t try any funny business or I’ll choke the life out of yer.’

      With shaking hands Rosamund attempted to unfasten the ties at her throat. But he grew impatient and dragged the garment from her,