Red Rose, White Rose. Joanna Hickson

wicked thing to do.’

      Even as I spoke the words, I could hear the weakness in my own argument. I knew nothing of what plans and schemes my parents had made during my father’s dying days. I had never spoken with him about the other half of his family. All his children by his first wife were strangers to me, as were their children. Apart from the man who now held my hand and his brothers, I hardly knew which of them still lived.

      Sir John pursed his lips wryly and nodded. ‘You are right, it is wicked. But you are not as familiar as I am with the wicked ways of the world. Even as we fight our family wars here in the north, in the south there are forces gathering around the young king of which he is also unaware. You and he are both too young yet to know how power corrupts people and causes them to act against God’s commands and the laws of the land. But you must trust me, Cicely, because I do know and I can help you to understand. Justice is a fragile flower but if we treat each other fairly and deal reasonably together then justice can still be done.’

      I tried to pull my hand away because the contact between us was confusing me. The messages passing up my arm were in conflict with the thoughts tumbling in my head. The first made me eager to believe the words of the man before me, while the second told me he was spinning a tale. Then his other hand rose to touch my cheek and my mind seemed to swim into a warm blue cloud and become lost to my rational self. I closed my eyes and let my starved senses relish the caress, then I felt his mouth close gently on mine and for what seemed like minutes I reveled in the first rush of fevered blood my body had experienced. The warmth of the spring sunshine was as nothing compared with the heat generated by the pressure of his lips on mine and the surge of pleasure it released. My bones seemed to turn liquid and I felt as if only our joined hands and lips were holding me upright. No carefully taught rules or commandments remained to order my feelings or actions. I did not care if I was on the steps to heaven or the road to hell; whether it was the devil or my own intoxicating desires that were drawing me along this unmapped path.

       7

       Aycliffe Tower

       Cicely

      After what seemed an eternity while all my senses swirled in glorious commotion, my eyes flew open and reality flooded back, bringing confusion. Guilt, shame and elation fought for supremacy in my bewitched mind and the sunlight flashing off the lake dazzled me as I jerked away from him, blinking and gasping.

      I pressed my fists together against my chest so that my nails dug into my palms and the pain of it mustered my scattered senses. I gazed at him, lips parted and eyes full of questions.

      ‘You are beautiful, Cicely,’ Sir John said quietly.

      ‘No!’ I tossed my head, as if to shake his words away. ‘Do not say that. You do not have the right.’

      His laugh was harsh with irony but his expression was tender. ‘Hah! What has right to do with beauty? I find you beautiful. What is there to fear from that?’

      ‘I fear where it may lead.’

      ‘Now there you are right. Where do you think it may lead?’

      My cheeks burned and I turned my face away. I wanted to tell him that I, too, found him beautiful but the words froze on my tongue.

      Instead I said, ‘I do not know. That is why I fear it.’

      He was not so tongue-tied. ‘You felt the connection between us, though? I have never experienced such pleasure from another’s touch. Tell me you felt it too, Cicely. I cannot believe you did not.’

      My gaze was drawn back to his as if by some external force. His cheeks were flushed, as I knew mine were, and they blazed even hotter when he sank down onto one knee before me, his eyes locked with mine, fiercely questioning. I nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I felt it,’ I said. ‘It burned like a brand. What does it mean? Why do you kneel?’

      ‘Because it means you are my lady.’ He reached for my hand and again I felt a jolt of recognition, as if our fingers ignited as they met. ‘You are my lady and I am your true and faithful knight.’ His words were solemn and fervent but after he pressed his forehead to the soft flesh above my knuckles, he raised his head to favour me with a sudden brilliant smile, which transformed his Nordic features with a curious blend of joy and mischief.

      ‘Now, if I were a grebe I would bring you gifts of weed dripping with diamond drops. And I would build you a nest of rushes threaded with buttercups and yellow irises and you would float on lavender-scented waters and rule your besotted subjects with a green willow wand.’ Ignoring my startled expression he rose and threaded my arm through his bent elbow to draw me to the water’s edge. ‘You would be queen of the lake. No predator would trouble you for I would slay them all and spike their heads on bulrushes so that the world would know that I am your consort and we two belong together forever in our peaceful, fragrant haven.’

      I found myself laughing at this preposterous fantasy, delighted by its glorious sensuousness. ‘And what would I do all day, lying among the buttercups and irises?’ I wondered, tilting my head in enquiry and catching his eye.

      The antipathy which had flared between us had evaporated as though it had never been and I felt reckless and light-hearted. Aycliffe Tower had suddenly become a wonderland rather than a place of conflict and confinement. Perhaps I was also light-headed from lack of sleep but I did not pause to consider this.

      Sir John swept his free arm in a wide arc to indicate the pastoral scene. ‘What do nymphs and naiads do in their watery idylls? Bathe in fresh springs and gossip in dappled shade.’

      ‘Have you been reading a little too much poetry, Sir John?’ I enquired with exaggerated concern. ‘I would hardly call the breeze balmy and those fresh springs are probably freezing.’

      He tossed back his heavy fringe of flaxen hair. ‘That is no problem. To please his honoured lady a gallant knight would cause the breeze to blow warm and the springs to bubble hot from the earth.’

      I pulled my hand from the crook of his arm and bent to dip it in the lake, splashing water up into his face. ‘Brr! I do not think your spell worked.’

      He raised one eyebrow sceptically and smiled as he brushed the drops from his cheek. ‘We shall see. I think you may find it did.’

      His air of smug male confidence suddenly annoyed me. I avoided his gaze and pretended to shiver. ‘I am cold. I think I will go to the church. If I cannot hear Mass at least I can pray.’

      ‘The priest is not of the kind you are used to,’ Sir John said. ‘He is only half literate and almost certainly not celibate. But the church will be peaceful. There will be a hot meal at dusk. I hope you will join us.’

      I was already walking away and he raised his voice so that his invitation would reach me but I made no reply one way or the other. Instead I voiced what was suddenly uppermost in my mind again, my tone intentionally barbed. ‘Perhaps you will have heard from Raby by then. I presume you have been in contact.’

      My back was turned but I could feel Sir John’s puzzlement at my abrupt change of mood. ‘Any message will reach me here,’ he said. ‘But I get no sense of urgency from that quarter.’

      His words echoed in my head … No sense of urgency from that quarter … and they troubled me greatly. Kneeling before the simple wooden cross above the altar of the little whitewashed church, I could not pray for delivery from my abductor because he had suddenly assumed the guise of my admirer. With only a slight sense of impiety, I found myself praying that there might be a way I could achieve my own freedom – since my family was making no great effort to free me – while also pursuing the emotional fulfilment of which I had so recently and enticingly had a taste.

      I returned, disconsolate, to the tower, but my mood would not last. Either on her own initiative or on instructions from Sir John, the stolid Marion had packed a change of clothes for me in the sumpter’s panniers, and my spirits rose as I discarded the mud-and-muck-stained