The Passionate Pilgrim. Juliet Landon

      “You will endeavor to be civil, will you, Lady?

      “I see. Then perhaps a lesson or two in civility would not come amiss, do you think?”

      There was no time to escape Sir Rhyan, for the scent of him already filled her nostrils as his mouth covered hers, and her lips had already begun to search for more.

      Like a dry moorland fire roaring out of control, the kiss caught them both unprepared. Merielle was enclosed within the furnace, responding with a white-hot intensity she had never experienced before. Involuntarily, she pushed herself against him, trembling in an agony of desire.

      Speechless, breathless, she twisted away and leaned against the paneling, her forehead pushing against the cool metal rim. “Madness!” she whispered.

      The Passionate Pilgrim

      Juliet Landon

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      JULIET LANDON

      lives in an ancient country village in the north of England with her retired scientist husband. Her keen interest in embroidery, art and history, together with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favorite occupation. She finds the research particularly exciting, especially the early medieval period and the fascinating laws concerning women in particular, and their struggle for survival in a man’s world.

      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

       Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Springtime 1359

      If Mistress Merielle St Martin had had her own way, she would have been soaking in a warm bath scented with lovage and lavender. Instead, she had felt obliged to accept a wreath of pennyroyal for her aching temples and then to listen with convincingly appreciative smiles to the love poem read to her by the faithfully adoring Bonard of Lincoln. It was not because it was in Latin that her mind wandered but because the day had been an especially long one with so much to be done before Sir Adam’s arrival.

      She stretched her legs along the bench in the sunny courtyard and arranged the fine woollen folds to droop gracefully towards the stone-flagged floor, rotating her aching feet and watching how the evening light caught on the stones and pearls of the silver filigree nutmeg-case. Its pungent scent had been useful in the steaming dye-house that morning and then later in the messy pilgrim-packed streets of Canterbury where the odour of sweat and filth was inescapable.

      Bonard’s voice was conspiratorial, which went to show, she thought, how little he knew about her, for he had assured her that the poem was his own composition, written for her alone. He read in Latin ostensibly because he said it sounded better, but more truthfully because he derived a secret pleasure from saying to his employer out loud things he dared not say in English. Now he was almost whispering.

      Poor Bonard. He had been her late husband’s employee and good friend and, for the life of her, Merielle had not been able to dismiss one who believed himself to be one of the family. Even though his position as assistant manager had now been taken over by a younger man, Merielle found him to be a useful chaperon, escorting her with chivalry but leaving her the freedom to make her own decisions without interference. She could never have borne that, for it was now almost three years since Philippe of Canterbury’s death and interference had not been one of his weaknesses. Far from it; her grieving had been more for the unborn child she had lost than for her husband.

      The whirring of the great wheel caught her eye and she watched from beneath thick black lashes how the bonny honey-coloured Bess flicked it on by one spoke and eased her other hand away, attached to the bobbin by a fine strand of madly twisting yarn. The maid caught her mistress’s eye and shot a quick look heavenwards, which she knew Master Bonard would not see for he wore a red scarf tied across one eye.

      “Oh, do take it off, Bonard,” Merielle said, gently. “How can you possibly read with one eye in this light?”

      He swivelled his head in an exaggerated arc to see her, the words Vultum Dioneum dying on his lips.

      “And what’s this goddess’s reward, then, for heaven’s sake?” As if she didn’t know.

      His mouth dropped open as his papers sank to his lap. “You…you understand it, mistress?”

      Merielle sighed, smoothing the soft green fabric over her thighs. She had not meant to let that out. Preventing a further explanation, a diversion of sounds turned their heads towards the covered walkway that bordered the courtyard and Merielle swung her legs down, ready to stand at Sir Adam’s entrance, her hands already welcoming. The gesture was not wasted, but it was not the expected brother-in-law.

      “Gervase. You’re back already?”

      “I came immediately. Scarce had time to brush the dust off.”

      Two lies at once, but she smiled her sweetest. “I’m flattered, sir. Welcome. Have you eaten?”

      Gervase of Caen was one of those responsible for the supplies of food that passed through the king’s household each day. Such a man never went unfed for long, not in any sense of the word. He took her hands in his and kissed them individually. Slowly. Then her two cheeks. Then her mouth. His smile was intimate. “Enough to keep me upright, that’s all. What delicacies do you have to offer me, Mistress Merielle St Martin of Canterbury?”

      An obvious answer sprang to her lips, but Bonard of Lincoln’s red scarf and baleful eye were rising over Gervase’s right shoulder like an angry sunrise and she would not ignore him. She swung their hands in his direction, prompting the handsome young man to remember his courtesies.

      Gervase bowed. “Master Bonard, forgive my interruption, if you please. Another of your creations, is it? Ah, such talent. Will you continue?” Gallantly, he waved a hand, inviting the poet to resume his recital despite the discouraging retention of Merielle’s hand in his own. At twenty-six years old, his seniority over Merielle could have been taken for more than five years. His sleek fair hair