LITMIR.BIZ

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His men had gone out into the snow, leaving them alone in the firelit shadows of the barn.

      ‘You cannot run away now,’ he said softly, his eyes on her face. ‘You have told me but a quarter of the tale.’

      He closed the door behind Standish and moved to set a chair for her. It was of the hard wooden variety, for there was not much pretence at comfort here in the barns and byres of the village of Grafton.

      Simon had been shocked to find the village in ruins when his troops had arrived to lay siege to the Manor. He soon discovered that it had been Gerard Malvoisier’s Royalist troops who had burned, looted and ravaged the area at will, taking whatever they wanted and destroying the rest for sport. Malvoisier’s conduct had been all the more unforgivable since Grafton had always held for the King. Now the populace was scattered, the houses in ruins and the people sullen with resentment, though they still held fast to the Royalist allegiance of the old Earl.

      Simon’s troops had encircled the Manor, living alongside the remaining villagers for three months in an uneasy truce. They had won a grudging respect from the people through sheer hard work, by treating the villagers courteously, sharing their food and helping with everything from the felling of timber to the rebuilding of cottages. Simon’s men mingled with the people in the streets, but it was an uncomfortable co-existence with all the tension of occupation, and at any moment it could erupt.

      To Simon’s mind, sieges were the most wearing and dangerous form of warfare. Only time, starvation and ultimately brute force could break the garrison in the Manor, and during those long days a man could get bored or careless, and forget to watch his back and be picked off by a sniper or knifed by a Royalist agent in the dark alleys of the village. Simon had lost half a dozen men that way in three months and the constant vigilance was rubbing them raw. They were all desperate to see action on the morrow. But now this news, on the eve of battle…

      Simon watched Anne as she reluctantly came closer to the fire, pulling her damp cloak closer about her like a shield. There was an uneasiness in her eyes as though she felt that she had already stayed too long. He thought of the haughty composure that she had assumed to get her past his men and into his presence. It could not be easy for a young woman in her situation to hold the people of Grafton together whilst her father lay dying, her home was overrun by Royalist troops and the threat of siege could end only in disaster and bloodshed. She was only one and twenty.

      Once again the treacherous sympathy stirred in him and he pushed it violently away. He had a job of work to do and he did not trust Anne Grafton any more. He could not.

      He moved to light another candle, keeping his eyes on her face. She looked so delicate and yet so determined. The line of her throat was pure and white above the collar of her blue velvet gown and the material clung to her figure with a seductive elegance that put all kinds of images in his head that were nothing to do with war at all. Then her hand stole to her pocket and he remembered his own safety with a flash of cold reason and all desire fled.

      ‘You carry a dagger, do you not?’ he said. ‘Give it to me.’

      Her head came up sharply and she bit her lip. Her hands stilled in the folds of her cloak and she straightened. ‘I should feel safer to keep it,’ she said.

      ‘No doubt,’ Simon said, ‘but it is a condition of our parley that you are not armed.’ He gestured to his sword belt, which lay across the back of one of the chairs. ‘I ask nothing of you that I am not prepared to concede myself.’

      Still Anne did not move and Simon knew she was thinking of her virtue rather than her life. Then she sighed and reluctantly placed the dagger on the table between them.

      ‘Thank you,’ Simon said. ‘You are in no danger, I assure you.’ He smiled a little. ‘Tell me,’ he added casually, returning to a thought that had struck him as soon as she had entered the room that night, ‘are all men afraid of you?’

      She looked at him. Her eyes were so dark and her face so shuttered that for a moment it was impossible to read her thoughts.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘A few are not.’

      Simon laughed. ‘Name them, then.’

      ‘My father.’ Her face went still, as though mention of the ailing Earl of Grafton was almost too much for her to bear. ‘And your brother, Sir Henry, treats me as though I were his elder sister.’ She looked up again and met his gaze. ‘And then there is you, my lord. I heard tell that you were afraid of nothing.’

      ‘That is a convenient fiction to encourage my men.’ Simon spoke shortly. He was surprised to feel himself disconcerted by her words. ‘Only a fool is not afraid on the eve of battle.’

      She nodded slowly. ‘And surely you are not that. One of the youngest colonels in the Parliamentarian army, renowned for your cool strategy and your courage, a soldier that the King’s men fear more than almost any other…’

      They looked at one another for a long moment, then Simon moved away and settled the logs deeper in the grate with his booted foot. They broke apart with a hiss of flame and a spurt of light, spilling the scent of apple wood into the room. Inside it was shadowy and warm, giving a false impression of intimacy when outside the door the snow lay thick and an army of men prepared for battle.

      ‘I was very sorry to hear of your father’s illness,’ Simon said. ‘The Earl of Grafton is a fine man. We may not support the same cause, but I have always admired him.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Anne pushed the dark hair back from her face. It was drying in wisps now, shadowy and dark about her face. She looked pale and tired.

      ‘Will he recover?’

      Anne shook her head. ‘He lives, my lord, but it would be as true to say he is dead. He neither moves nor speaks, and he takes little food. Nor does he recognise any of us any more. It is only a matter of time.’

      Simon nodded. It was very much what he had already heard from the talk in the village. The Earl of Grafton had been ailing for years and it was no surprise that the King had recently sought to reinforce Grafton with troops from Oxford, under the control of General Gerard Malvoisier. Grafton was ideally placed to keep the route from the West Country to Oxford open for the King, and it had been strongly equipped with arms and men. The Parliamentarian generals also suspected that there was a quantity of treasure hidden at Grafton, sent by Royalists in the West Country to swell the King’s coffers. Therefore General Fairfax had sent Simon, with a battalion of foot soldiers and a division of cavalry, to take Grafton from the Royalists once and for all.

      It was King Charles himself who had ordered the betrothal between Gerard Malvoisier and Anne soon after war had been declared in 1642, and Simon therefore had all the more of a grudge against the Royalist commander. Grafton had been promised to him—and so too had its heiress, before the King had intervened. Simon had always despised Gerard Malvoisier, whom he considered nothing more than a thug who tried to conceal his brutality beneath a cloak of soldiering. When he had thought Malvoisier had murdered Henry, he had hated him even more. As for the idea of Anne’s betrothal to him, it was repugnant. The thought of Malvoisier claiming Anne, taking that slender body to his bed, breaking her to his will with all the brutality of which he was capable made Simon feel physically sick.

      Looking at her now, with her hair drying in the warmth of the fire and the candlelight casting its shadow across the fine line of her cheekbone and jaw, he felt something snap deep within him. Malvoisier would never have her. Unless…Simon paused. Perhaps it was already too late. Rumour said that Gerard Malvoisier had made sure of Anne by following up their betrothal with a bedding immediately after. She was in all likelihood already his mistress.

      There was a knock at the door and Standish stuck his head around.

      ‘The wine, my lord.’ He withdrew silently and the door closed with a quiet click.

      Simon poured for them both and passed Anne a glass. His hand touched hers; her fingers were cold. A strange feeling, part-anger, part-protectiveness, took him then, once again piercing the chill that had encased him since Henry’s death.

      ‘Come

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