Knight's Move. Jennifer Landsbert

She must keep her wits about her, watch this man’s every move in case he gave himself away as an impostor. He was hesitating now.

      ‘Go on,’ she prompted, pushing her advantage.

      ‘You’re serious?’ he questioned. ‘You really don’t recognise me?’ Hester shook her head. He sighed and Hester tried to read his thoughts, but his face was inscrutable. ‘I am Guy Beauvoisin,’ he began, ‘direct descendent of Guy the Harrier, who fought with William the Conqueror and was given Abbascombe for his services to the king.’

      ‘Anyone could have found that out,’ she scoffed, then fixed him with a challenging stare. ‘Continue, if you still wish to try.’

      He took up the gauntlet. ‘You are the Lady Hester, only child of Sir Richard Rainald. You were a twelve-year-old orphan, a ward of the king, when my father chose you to be my wife.’

      ‘That is widely known. You’ve still proved nothing.’

      ‘You want something that only you and your husband could know?’ he asked, his voice carrying a hint of danger which made Hester clench her fists involuntarily, until she felt her fingernails grazing into the flesh of her hands.

      ‘Of course,’ she breathed, feigning insouciance, but feeling herself cornered. Her heart pounded with the rhythm of the doubts in her mind. Was he her husband? Don’t let it be him, she wished. Please let him be dead.

      Suddenly he was advancing towards her, his long, muscular legs covering the ground in an instant. Hester shied back instinctively. The air between them seemed to crackle with his presence.

      ‘You want me to tell you?’ he demanded and the question sounded like a threat.

      At that moment there was nothing she wanted more than to keep him at a distance, as far from her as possible. The memory of his closeness that afternoon sent those same shivers coursing up and down her spine. She searched her mind desperately for a way to avoid his proximity, but before she could find one, he was there at her side, his hand gripping her elbow so tightly it made her flinch, as he bent his lips to her ear. He was so close she felt again the tips of his bristles grazing her cheek as he rasped, ‘After our vows, when we were truly man and wife, I looked deep into your eyes and said, “Don’t look so scared, little girl, I shall never force you to fill the office of a wife. You may go back to your dolls.”’

      A dart of pain shot through Hester at the memory of those words of rejection. Suddenly she was back ten years ago, that frightened girl, fighting back the tears when she realised that this new husband felt only contempt for her. It had been exactly as he said, the same words, the same voice. She pulled away from him and again found herself looking into those eyes. They were the same too, in spite of the way the scar pulled at his brow, in spite of the changes the years had wrought on the rest of his face. She had to admit to herself now that she recognised his eyes.

      But she was no longer the terrified little girl whom he could buffet with his scorn. She was strong now, strong enough for the whole of Abbascombe, and she would not be bullied. Hester summoned up her strength and fixed him hard with her eyes. As she glared at him, she thought she detected some effort in his face as he returned her stare.

      ‘My lord,’ she said, curtsying low, her muddy skirts sweeping the cobbled floor of the courtyard. ‘You are welcome to Abbascombe. We have long awaited your return. Speak your will and it shall be done. Your humble wife asks your bidding.’ The words came out somehow, however unwilling she was to speak them.

      There was a clamour all around her as the spectators, who had held their peace for so long, suddenly spoke all at once. Hester felt rather than heard their voices. All her attention was fixed on him, the so-called husband she had never expected to see again as long as she lived. He was back and she knew he was trouble.

      As the villagers swarmed around him, eager for a good look at their fabled missing lord, greeting him with cheers and questions, Hester stepped back and took a long, hard look at him. Yes, she could see the resemblance now, even though he was smiling as he shook hands and returned good wishes. It was a broad, warm smile, taking the place of the scowls, fury and mockery which were the only expressions she had ever seen on his face until now.

      Hester could not share in this joyful scene. She felt numb and terribly alone. Mechanically, she turned away and allowed her feet to lead her towards the house. Suddenly she felt like a stranger in her own home, superfluous, unwanted. The unfairness of it all stabbed at her chest. After all, he was the one who had deserted them. She was the one who had kept Abbascombe alive during the long years of the crusade. How could they welcome him back after the way he had betrayed them all?

      In a daze she wandered into the kitchen. She often came here first after a cold day out of doors. The warmth and delicious smells suffusing the little stone outbuilding, separated from the main house for fear of fire, always seemed so cheering and welcoming. Today, though, the normal busyness had become a frenzy of activity. Fritha, the cook, had been expecting to be feeding a hall full of hungry labourers after their day’s work in the fields—and suddenly she was faced with the return of her long-lost lord. Normally level-headed, it was no wonder she was a little flustered by the news.

      ‘Oh, isn’t it wonderful, my lady? Maud says he’s just like his father was at that age.’

      ‘Does she? Of course, I can’t judge.’

      ‘Oh, my lady. And to think we all believed he might be dead, begging your ladyship’s pardon. But after all those years and not a word.’

      ‘That’s quite all right, Fritha, many crusaders will never return from the Holy Land. It was always possible that my lord might have been one of them.’

      Oh, why, why did he have to come back and spoil everything she’d worked for? Just when the worst was over and she could start to enjoy life at Abbascombe, her Abbascombe. No, not hers anymore. His Abbascombe. She’d have to get used to that. By law, everything belonged to him. Even she herself belonged to him, Hester thought with a shudder.

      How could anyone call that justice? He didn’t care for her or for the manor. He’d made that clear when he deserted them both. He had left her behind to struggle and strive, to dirty her hands with the Abbascombe soil, to cover them with blisters and chilblains from hard work out of doors in all weathers. She had earned Abbascombe. By rights it was hers. And if he thought she would give it up easily, he had a lesson to learn.

      No doubt he intended to lock her up indoors with tapestry work and harp-playing, while he strutted about the fields—her fields. Of course, he’d be sure to make a mess of everything again. He would leave misery and destruction in his wake as he had ten years before.

      ‘My lady? Which would you like, my lady?’ Fritha was asking, looking into Hester’s face with a frown.

      ‘Which?’ Hester repeated absent-mindedly.

      ‘The venison or the beef?’ Fritha suggested, her tone making it clear this wasn’t the first time of asking. Hester looked blank.

      ‘For my lord’s dinner tonight. Of course, it will mean dinner will have to be served later than usual. If only he had arrived earlier in the day, I could have prepared something really special.’ Fritha had obviously been running through all the options, while Hester’s mind had been churning.

      ‘But we’re saving those meats for Easter, aren’t we?’ Hester returned.

      ‘But, my lady—’

      ‘No, no, don’t break into the stores, Fritha. That bruet we had last night was perfectly good. Haven’t we got any of that left?’

      ‘There’s plenty left, my lady, that’s what I’m giving all the villagers. But you can’t give that to his lordship on his homecoming. It’s not good enough for him.’

      ‘We looked on rabbit bruet as a great treat three years ago, have you forgotten?’

      ‘I know, my lady, but—’

      ‘If it’s good enough for all of us, it’s good enough for him. The bruet will be fine,