LITMIR.BIZ

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counter-attacked, his deadly blade flashing out in an arc and catching the other man’s sword. With a twist of his wrist he sent the sword skimming across the floor and in the next instant his blade cut Sir Hugh across the body, a deep deadly wound that sent him sprawling to the ground, his lifeblood gushing out in a stream. For some minutes, he twitched, an expression of disbelief in his eyes, and then he lay still.

      ‘That devil will bother us no more,’ Hassan said, a look of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘He has tortured and murdered for the last time, my lord.’

      ‘Yes,’ Stefan agreed. ‘You have done what I should have done long ago, Hassan—but now we must leave for his men are coming….’

      Stefan advanced to the door, sword in hand. The sounds of fighting would have reached the ears of Sir Hugh Grantham’s men. They would need to fight their way out, side by side, as they had many times before this day, comrades and brothers, their swords for hire to any that would pay them.

      Anne Melford stopped to watch the mummers on the village green. The men were a fine sight as they danced, the bells they wore on leather straps about their legs jingling merrily as they jigged to the fiddler’s tune. The summer fair had come to Melford and Lady Melford had promised her daughter that they would buy cloth for new gowns, as was their custom. Normally, that thought would be pleasing, but Anne frowned as she turned away from the celebrations. Since her sister Catherine’s wedding three years earlier, Anne had grown restless at home. Sometimes she despaired of it ever being her turn to visit the court and find a husband. Her parents had talked of it the previous year, but then her young brother had fallen ill and the visit had been postponed. At sixteen years of age it would have been usual for Anne to at least be betrothed by now and she had thought of her marriage constantly for years.

      At one time she had believed herself in love with Will Shearer. She had feared Catherine might wed him, but Anne’s sister had fallen in love with Andrew, Earl of Gifford. Anne occasionally visited her sister and brother-in-law and envied them their happiness. She was no longer sure who she wished to marry, for she knew that Will had recently married his mistress, a woman not of his own class. His marriage had made his mother very angry, and at first Anne had been terribly hurt because she had truly believed that he would love her one day. However, her distress had given way to a feeling of emptiness and uncertainty that grew with the passing of time. Perhaps her mother had decided that it would be best if she remained at home. It might be that she would never marry…

      As she crossed the village green, Anne caught sight of two men approaching on horseback. It was not an unusual sight, except that one of them was dressed rather oddly in loose flowing robes over his leggings. His head was covered by some kind of cloth, the bottom half of his face hidden. She could see his black eyes and his nose, and noticed that his skin was the colour of polished walnut, as were the hands that held the reins of his horse. The second man was dressed as befitted a nobleman, though not in the English style, and, as Anne moved her curious gaze to him, she saw a fierce, proud, handsome face with eyes as blue as a summer sky. She noticed a dark brown stain on his silken hose and wondered if it were dried blood.

      He had become aware of her interest and his gaze narrowed, icy cold and challenging. Anne was startled. What could she possibly have done to make him look at her that way? She felt that he was hostile and shivered, feeling nervous as she hurried on her way. She sensed that the men were strangers to her village and wondered what brought them to this quiet valley in the Marches that lay on the borders of England and Wales.

      She was not sure what nationality the men were; one had much lighter skin than the other, but both had a foreign air about them and she did not think that either was English. She wondered if they were Saracens, because one looked as if he came from the East, but what would men like that be doing here? Her father, Lord Robert Melford, sometimes traded with men from other lands, but she did not think they had come from her father’s estate. She would judge that they had travelled some distance for there was dust on their boots, and the dark man’s clothes had been spattered with brown marks that Anne took to be mud—or was it blood?

      She thought about the strangers for a few minutes as she made her way through the meadows to her home. The grass was long and sprinkled with wild flowers—it had been left to grow wild and would be cropped for hay later in the year. However, as she entered the courtyard of her father’s manor house she saw that several men on horseback had just arrived, and one of them was her elder brother Harry—or Sir Harry as he was known since King Henry had knighted him after Prince Arthur’s wedding. Sadly, the prince had died only a few months after his marriage. The King’s heir was now Prince Henry and there had been some talk of him marrying his brother’s widow.

      Anne’s feeling of boredom vanished as she saw her brother. Harry was some years older than Anne, was Catherine’s twin, and was often at court or on some business for the King. He had not visited for more than six months and Anne’s feeling of boredom vanished as she saw him.

      ‘Harry! Harry!’ Anne cried, gathering her skirt in one hand so that she could run faster, heedless of the fact that she was revealing a pair of pretty ankles.

      Anne was in fact a very pretty young woman. Her hair always turned lighter in the sunshine, and it was presently the colour of ripe corn, lighter than Harry’s dark auburn and their mother’s red tresses. Anne’s eyes were a greenish blue, but often became a deeper green when she was angry, at least her brothers told her so, because they said she had eyes like a cat. Slim, fiery and always eager for life, she had a temper that she was at pains to hide for her mother’s sake.

      ‘Anne!’ Harry turned towards her with a smile on his lips. He had matured these past years and was now a powerful man, strong and influential at court, too busy to think often of his home and family. ‘You grow more lovely each time I see you.’

      ‘You hardly ever come home,’ Anne accused, but with a smile on her lips because she was glad to see him. ‘You are too busy with your fine friends at court. Mother said only yesterday that she despairs of you ever settling down.’

      ‘Then perhaps she will be pleased with my news,’ Harry said and grinned. ‘It is my intention to take a wife quite soon. We shall live at court for a time, but once we have children my lady may wish to live on my estate—and Father will be pleased to learn that I have secured land no more than thirty leagues from Shrewsbury.’

      ‘Close enough for us to visit you often,’ Anne said and sighed. ‘I am glad you are to wed at last, Harry, but I wish I was betrothed.’

      Harry chuckled at his sister’s impatience. ‘What a woeful picture you are, Anne. You are still young enough, never fear. I dare say Father will take you to court before another year is out.’

      Anne slipped her arm through his, smiling at him as they went into the house. His men were seeing to the horses and the baggage cart. These days Harry travelled with a train of at least ten men-at-arms and the servants necessary to fetch and carry for them.

      ‘Sometimes I feel as if I shall be a maid all my life,’ Anne said and pulled a face. ‘But tell me, brother, what is the lady’s name and where does she live?’

      ‘She is Mademoiselle Claire St Orleans,’ Harry said and gazed down at her, for she reached only as far as his shoulder. Above six foot in height and broad shouldered, Harry was a giant amongst men and very attractive. ‘In truth, I do not know that she will take me. We have met but three times. Once at court, when she attended a masque with her father, and twice in Paris when I was on business for the King. She lives in the Loire valley and it is there that I must journey if I am to ask for her hand in marriage.’

      ‘She is French?’ Anne was surprised and curious. She wondered what her parents would think about Harry marrying a French lady. ‘And of noble birth?’

      ‘Her father is a comte,’ Harry told her. ‘She is very beautiful, Anne. Her hair is similar in colour to yours, but her eyes are blue. She has a soft, gentle nature and I love her. I have taken my time in deciding whether or not to ask Claire to be my wife, because she would have to leave her home and come to England to live. I am not sure that she will wish to give up so much for my sake.’

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