MAIDEN in the Tudor Court. June Francis

and that penetrating gaze. It made her feel small and vulnerable and intensely feminine. No doubt if he were to discover the truth about her, he would turn away in disgust and abandon her to her fate. Her safety lay in his never knowing what or who she was, so she must keep that constantly in her mind and strut like a youth.

      ‘You have slept well, Master Wood,’ said Alex, casting aside the folds of his cloak and getting to his feet. ‘But the sun is up and it is time we were on our way.’

      She remembered to deepen her voice when she opened her mouth to ask him a question. ‘Do you think there is any chance of us catching up with Lady Elizabeth this day?’

      He gave her an odd look and shrugged before lifting his saddle and asking her to carry out his saddlebags. She nodded, but did not immediately follow him, instead relieving herself in a distant corner of the cave. She determined that she would not be lured into telling him anything about herself. She still did not know in what circumstances he had met her father and what information he had wanted from him.

       Chapter Three

      Rosamund washed her face in the stream outside and then resumed her position on the horse with a determined tilt to her chin.

      Alex soon realised that any hope he had of gaining information about Sir James and his stepson in London was firmly quashed. There was little he could do about it without bringing force to bear on his companion and he was reluctant to rekindle the fear in the blue-violet eyes. So he held his peace and prayed that his patience would eventually pay off. His conviction concerning his companion’s femininity made it almost impossible for him to give his full attention to the passing landmarks. He had planned on committing them to memory, so that if he needed to travel to the north-west of England again, he would find his way without too much difficulty. The scent of the slender figure and the feel of that small hand against his back triggered his imagination.

      He tried not to dwell on there being feminine curves beneath the male garb by forcing himself to concentrate on what part Lady Elizabeth would expect him to play in her troupe of performers. It would not be the first time he had donned the disguise of a player and part of him looked forward to doing so. Hopefully the disguise would serve its purpose in having him accepted by those attending the proxy wedding of Princess Margaret to James of Scotland at Richmond Palace and would not suspect his real aim in being there. He had committed to memory the names of those whom his father regarded as not only his personal enemies, but those of the proposed peace pact between England and Scotland. Peace between the two countries was essential if the piracy in the northern seas was to be brought to an end. Ships from his own country had discovered to their cost that the buccaneering Scots and English did not always differentiate between ally and enemy. But his task lay more than a sennight ahead and, right now, he would be glad when they came to a town. He was hungry and no doubt his travelling companion was, too.

      They had travelled twelve leagues or more that day, stopping only once in Congleton to eat and drink and stretch their legs. As dusk fell they came to a village with but one inn. Alex dismounted and went inside, calling to Rosamund that he would see what were the sleeping arrangements.

      Hastily, she slid from the horse and followed him inside and was just in time to hear the innkeeper say that there was only one sleeping chamber available. As they were his only guests, they would have it to themselves and sleeping pallets were included in the charge for the night. Alex had no choice but to accept what was on offer. On hearing the sounds of men roistering in the tap room and being told there was no private parlour available, he said they would eat their supper upstairs.

      Rosamund assured herself that sharing a chamber with Master No Name was no different from sleeping in the cave, but she soon realised that she was deceiving herself. Conscious of several pairs of eyes upon them, she squirmed with embarrassment at having to be dependent on this man to see that she had a roof over her head and food in her stomach.

      The innkeeper lit a lantern from a burning candle and handed it to Alex and gave him directions to the stables. He thanked him and went over to Rosamund. He gazed down into her sullen face, noticing the dark rings of weariness beneath the violet eyes. ‘You’re weary. Why don’t you go upstairs and take your ease? I’ll tend to the horse.’

      Rosamund shook her head. ‘I am no weakling. I will help you.’ She did not want to be left alone in the inn. She went out into the freezing night and took hold of the horse’s bridle and led it towards a huddle of outbuildings that showed up against the darkening sky.

      Alex gazed after her, looking for those signs common to her sex. Was he right in believing her to be Sir James’s daughter? He noted the swing of her hips and the way she held her head. He considered the possibility of training her as one of his accomplices if he could prove her trustworthy. She certainly seemed to possess some of the traits needed to be a spy by being prepared to set aside the mores of the day by disguising herself as a member of the opposite sex. Something Ingrid would never do; she much preferred donning a nun’s outfit or the silken skirts of a lady. Mistress Appleby was obviously desperate and in need of money—and if she really turned out to be a little crazy after all, perhaps that was necessary when playing such dangerous games as spying. But he was running ahead of himself; she had not yet proved herself trustworthy and he must never forget that he had mistakenly trusted Ingrid to his cost.

      Alex set the lantern down on a bench and glanced about the stable. His companion was struggling to unsaddle his horse, but it was obvious she was not accustomed to tending such a large animal, and was finding it difficult. Without a by your leave, he seized her by the elbows and lifted her out of the way. ‘Leave this to me, Master Wood. You fetch some water,’ he ordered.

      Rosamund bit back a retort and looked about her for a bucket. She picked one up and went outside to where she had noticed a water trough. She scooped up as much water as she could, only to stagger beneath its weight when she lifted it up. She entered the stable, carrying the bucket with both hands.

      Alex moved swiftly to relieve her of her burden. ‘Allow me,’ he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

      Rosamund had no choice but to hand it over to him, though could not resist saying, ‘I know you are the stronger man, but I could have managed it, you know.’

      Alex realised his mistake in rushing to her aid and instantly tried to rectify it. ‘Why must you be on the defensive, young Master Wood? We have both had a long day and are weary. Get inside and leave me to finish tending my own horse.’

      Rosamund did not move, remembering the noise of the men drinking in the tap room. What if one were to come out and pick a fight with her? ‘I would rather wait here,’ she said.

      Alex shrugged. ‘Please yourself. I am not your keeper.’

      Are you not? she almost said.

      Alex decided to test her. ‘Do you have a mother?’

      ‘She is dead. Died when I was just a child. What about you?’

      Alex decided that it should do no harm telling her a little about himself—it might encourage her to talk more. ‘My mother died shortly after I was born.’

      ‘So who looked after you?’

      ‘A wet nurse and my grandparents.’ Alex recalled his grandmother telling him that his mother, Maria Nilsson, had gone to Scotland in the train of Princess Margaret of Denmark on the occasion of her marriage to Scotland’s then king. She was a widow and the Earl Douglas already married when they met. Apparently the affair had lasted several years. Maria had given birth to him in Scotland and he had been named Alexander Christian. His mother had died a week later.

      ‘What about your father?’

      The muscles of Alex’s face stiffened, remembering as a boy asking his grandparents about his father. They had told him that Christian Nilsson had been a mighty soldier, killed in a battle with the Danes before Alex was born. He had grown up, believing himself to be the son of a Swedish soldier hero, and was proud of the fact. He had been devastated when he had discovered that he was Earl Douglas’s bastard instead of the son of the Swedish hero.