REST AND ACTION
Amice felt a strange warmth in her chest as they rode back up through the village to the church. She realized with some surprise that the feeling was pride.
I really feel as if he's my husband.
She bit her cheeks, trying not to smile. Every time she glanced at him, she felt the same warm feeling inside of her. She almost felt like she was seeing him through the eyes of others. He was so handsome, so well-muscled, and so graceful in the way he moved. She was proud of him, she realized.
There was a group of men clustered on the edge of the green. They stared at her. Clearly guessing she was a noblewoman, they waited until she'd passed before catcalling. Amice saw Henry stiffen. She smiled.
“Henry, don't let them provoke you. Take it easy. They'll not hurt me.”
He frowned darkly. “Even so.”
She giggled and they rode together up to the church. There, Henry dismounted.
“I won't be a minute – I just want to have a look round; see if I can find the priest. He should be able to talk French, at least.”
Amice nodded. She slid off her horse as he dismounted, and they looped the reins around the nearby fence, and then went in.
Inside, the church was almost pitch dark, its structure squat and sturdy. It was built much earlier than the cathedral had been, its sides thick and its roof low, the arches semicircles, not the soaring pointed arches of the later buildings. Candles burned on the altar and green daylight filtered down into the dark space.
She heard Henry talking to someone and stepped cautiously up. He had found the priest. They were speaking French.
“Oh. Well, my son,” she heard the priest saying, “I cannot say I've seen or heard of any Frenchmen in the village. But I will ask my flock as I see them. In the meanwhile, mayhap you would care to stay at the inn? And your lady wife, of course,” he added, inclining his head to Amice with a grin. Amice flushed.
“Yes, Father,” she said demurely.
Henry thanked him and they headed out into the light. The local inn was close to where they'd come in, just offset from the main road by its big stone-paved inn-yard. They stabled their horses and went to take a room.
“Henry,” Amice whispered urgently as they approached the counter where the inn-keeper sat.
“Yes, dear?” he murmured.
“We'll have to take a single room.”
“Yes,” he agreed mildly. “It would look odd if we didn't, wouldn't it?”
Amice swallowed. “Henry! I...”
“Yes, my dear?” the innkeeper asked her. She drew in a deep breath.
“Good afternoon. I am Lady Amice, and this is Lord Henri, my husband. He's French,” she added, when the innkeeper raised his brows, an inquiring look. “We'll lodge here for...” she looked up at Henry, who shrugged.
“Three days?”
“For three days,” she confirmed.
“Of course, my lady,” the inn-keeper said. He gave Henry a sidelong look. “I have a lovely room on the first floor. It should suit such gentlefolk as yourself. If you have any luggage?”
“It's been sent ahead,” Amice said smoothly. He looked surprised, but nodded.
“Well, then. Up you go. First door on the left. Can't miss it.”
“Thank you.”
Amice and Henry went up to their room. As she went, she could feel her pulse thudding. We are in one bedchamber. I am sharing a bedroom with Henry. Sharing a bed with Henry. Her face flushed. Her heart pounded. The thought was at once deeply shocking and wonderfully exciting.
They went into the room together. Inside, the walls were oak-paneled, the bed a graceful one with a thick blue coverlet and soft cushions. Amice sat down on it, grateful to be off her feet. It was just after midday already and she was tired, cold, and hungry. She heard the floor creak as Henry walked in and stood opposite the window, where white daylight seeped in. He looked tired too, though his back was rigid and his stance alert. Amice swallowed hard.
I've spent a night with him before. But this is different.
She was actually sharing a room with him. They had one bed. In addition, they were sharing it as if they were wed.
She tried to tear her gaze from him but she found it hard to look away. She looked into the fire, watching the flames rise and fall in the grate. She heard a soft scuff of a boot on floorboards and when she looked up Henry was looking at her.
There was a depth of hunger in those blue eyes that surprised her. She shuddered, but not with fear. His hunger called forth a hunger deep inside her. She stood but he was faster, and he stood in front of her, his hands on her waist.
“Amice,” he murmured. “Oh, my dear.”
He kissed her hungrily and her heart raced. Here, there was no one. No disturbance, no pressing need to be on the run. No concealment. They were alone.
She sighed and wrapped her arms around his chest. His lips came down onto hers and pressed against them, his hard, probing tongue sliding in between and exploring her mouth. He pushed her back a little and they fell onto the bed.
He lay on top of her, his one hand in her hair, looking down at her. His body was a sweet weight on her chest and her heart thumped there in the cask of her ribs, swift and urgent. She could feel the weight of him pressing on her below the waist, and somehow the feeling of heat in her body concentrated there, throbbing and warming and making her want to push against him.
She did so and he groaned, kissing her neck. His hands moved to the fastening of her dress as his other hand moved toward her breast. She gasped as he cupped it in his hand. No one had ever touched her that way but it felt good. It felt right.
His hand was at the neck of her dress and the buttons slowly came undone. The first, then the second, then the third...then all the way down to her mid-back as he rolled her gently onto her side.
He sat back as he rolled her over, pulling dress and petticoat down as he kissed his way down her neck and to her breasts. Then he stopped abruptly.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No. If I do this, then...”
He sat up, shaking his head. His face was ash-pale. He was shaking. His hands were tight. Balled into fists. She sat up, feeling the flush of embarrassment fill her.
“Henry, I...”
“It's not you,” he said gently. He turned to face her. His eyes were dark, tortured. “It's me.”
“No, Henry,” she said gently. She was fastening her gown and he stared at her skin, and then closed his eyes. “It's not you,” she insisted.
“It is me, though.” He laughed. He moved then, when she had finished fastening her dress. He knelt on the floor, gazing up. “I'm wicked, I know.”
She smiled. Reached out a hand and, very gently, stroked his cheek. She sighed.
“Henry, you are not wicked. No more than I.”
He laughed, his face disbelieving. “No. No you're not.”
“I am, though,” Amice said gently. “I...” she shook her head. “Henry, I like how you make me feel. I don't know anything about it, but I don't want to stop. I also know how wrong it is.”
Henry laughed. “Then you know exactly how I feel.”
She felt her heart melt. He looked so longingly and so guiltily at her. She kissed him. He tensed and kissed her back. Their lips met and parted in a kiss that was chaste and gentle and said no less of love than their earlier kiss had done, despite its innocence.
“Now,” he said raggedly, “I should move.” He stood and walked to where their saddle packs were lined up against the one wall, rummaging through one. “If I sit too near you, I'll never stop.”
She smiled. “Oh, Henry. Me too.”
She surprised herself by how shaky her voice was. She really did long for him, she realized. It was going to be so hard not to touch him, not to allow the natural end to their longings.
Not that I even know where all this ends. Not really. I want to, though.
She flushed. She couldn't quite believe that she, her mother's youngest, the gentle family baby, was thinking of such things.
“Now,” Henry was saying as he fidgeted with their luggage, “I think the best thing we can do is have some lunch.”
Amice chuckled. “A good idea.” At the thought, her stomach twitched alarmingly and she realized that, for an active day, they'd really eaten very little. She was ravenous.
They settled down in the dining-room together. The place was quite rustic, the other clients farmers or farriers, and over the stew with fresh baked rolls, they discussed their plans.
They spoke French, which attracted some angry glances until the innkeeper told the customers, in no uncertain terms, that they were local gentry and not to be bothered. Amice flashed him a smile and he blushed, nodding.
“What did he say?” Henry murmured.
“He said to leave us be.”
He smiled. “Good.”
Under the table, his foot brushed her ankle. She jumped. He smiled and she wasn't altogether sure the contact had been accidental. Her pulse raced.
“Henry,” she said firmly.
“What?”
She blushed. “Nothing.”
He laughed. He broke bread and they shared it, Amice savoring the delicious yeast-filled taste.
As they ate, Henry told her a story about when he was a boy, riding through the woods near his father's manor. When she looked at him, she noticed something.
No. It cannot be. But it was. She was sure of it.
The man by the door – he was one of the servants from the duke's holdings. She was almost completely sure of it. She kept an eye on him. Henry frowned. She jerked her head. He raised a brow but didn't look at once. He finished the tale, broke bread, and then surreptitiously turned.
“Oh.” He nodded. “Him?”
“Mm.” Amice nodded. She held the bread in her stew, soaking up the gravy. “He's been watching.” She ate the bread and then continued. “I'm sure he's listening.”
“Oh?” Henry frowned. “In that case, did I tell you about the time I had a hunting accident? There was a fellow just like that poor spavined dolt by the door then, too.”
Amice stared at him. Across the room, the man frowned and scraped back his chair. Henry tensed. He nodded at her.
“Yes. He does understand French.”
She almost laughed, but the seriousness of the situation was too great. They thought they had escaped, but now she wasn't certain. If only she knew for sure it was the same man!
“What should we..?” she began. Henry coughed.
“I fancy a walk when we've finished this meal. What say you?”
Amice swallowed, and then nodded. “Good. Yes.”
In the inn yard, Henry drew her aside. “Well spotted!” he nodded. “You were right.”
They were in the shadow of a wall near the stables. In the main body of the yard, a serving man carried flour into the kitchen and a carter checked his team. A groom raked hay and the cook was singing to herself as she washed the pots. It was a pastoral, peaceful place. Even so, she shivered.
“Henry, I think I know him.”
He stared at her. “What? How can you...” he trailed off as she interrupted gently.
“Henry, I think I recognize him from the duke's household. He was at the banquet, and also in the solar, during breakfast. He works for him.”
“Oh.” Henry tensed. “Well. That's bad.”
“Yes.”
They stood silent a while. Amice looked at him, feeling so worried for him. He was already wounded. Why couldn't these people leave him alone? She squeezed his arm.
“We'll find a way out,” she said reassuringly. He nodded.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, we should probably do that now. Actually...” he frowned. “I have an idea.”
“You do?” Amice looked up at him, curious. “What should we do?”
“This.”
He told her his plan. It was simple but brilliant. He looked at her afterward with worried eyes.
“Amice. Do you think...no.” He shook his head. “We can't do this. It's too risky.”
“No,” Amice shook her head. “I have a better idea.”
She told him. He looked outraged.
“No!” He shook his head. “No, Amice. I cannot allow...”
“Shush,” she said firmly. “I know you think it's a bad idea. Nevertheless, it might just work. Moreover, I trust you. Could you at least consider..?”
He sighed. “Very well.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He closed his eyes. “But if you're hurt...if anything happens to you. If so much as a hair on your head is harmed, I'll never forgive myself.”
Amice smiled. Surprised by her own boldness, she kissed him. He kissed her back. He held her against him as if he thought it was their last moment. As if she might vanish into air. As if he drowned and she was his survival. Then he moved away.
“Very well,” he said. “Let's go inside.”
They had a plan to follow.