How the handle of the pitchfork managed to wham him hard in the belly before he could prevent it, Miles never fathomed. He was too busy with the pain while ‘Lady Haute’ called for help, exclaiming he must have taken some poisoned food. If that was not bad enough, one of the grooms thrust a handful of charcoal into his mouth as an antidote. He half-choked before he could shove the fellow away. By the time he found some ale to rinse his mouth, his wife had fled taking the child with her, and the trumpets were fanfaring the arrival of his Welsh betrothed and her guardian.

‘Where in Hell have you been?’ Harry mouthed, as Miles, in a fresh doublet, made his bow in the duke’s solar. Rhys ap Thomas, accompanied by a superfluity of wet Black Raven banners and an excessive number of damp hangers-on, was already warming his hands before the hearth. Smirking, taller and more clean-shaven than most of his retinue, the visitor gripped Miles’s hand with vigour, and drew forward his future bride, the demoiselle Myfannwy.

‘Y Cysgod?’ His name was spoken with sweet breath, and eyes, dark as sloes, evaluated him shrewdly. Her alluring smile showed tidy, unblemished teeth. Thank God, he thought in relief, and said something flattering in Welsh, his glance swift to note the parting of the girl’s cloak, which permitted a glimpse of tempting cleavage framed by comfortingly brown braids. It was not just the alliance that was appealing.

It was an understatement to say that the Welsh, no doubt happy to be somewhere civilised with free ale on offer, enjoyed the banquet that followed. In parenthesis between his future wife and her guardian, Miles, too, indulged himself; Rhys’s arrival had at least damped down any fires of reprisal for the hanging of a Vaughan man that morning and the conversation was informative. Rhys took pains to point out that Myfannwy’s hips and dowry were both ample, and that her husband would become the owner of considerable flocks. Since Welsh wool was funding the spires on English churches, he suggested Miles should please Holy Church in similar fashion and earn himself a discount in Purgatory.

By twilight, the Welshmen were into songs that nobody could understand unless they had been born west of Llangurig. The duchess, not to be outdone, brought out her musical ammunition, including Lady Haute – perdition take her! Miles could still taste the charcoal – who was beseeched to take her turn and afterwards surrounded by a little court of moist-eyed, scruffy sons of Cymru.

‘Iesu Grist!’ exclaimed someone. ‘A fynno iechyd, bid lawen,’ and they launched into a rollicking song that involved cupbashing. Any translation would have been immodest.

Above the salt, as talk of politics and gossip grew stale, Myfannwy unwisely sought to explore between the milestones of her future lord’s past. Miles was courteously monosyllabic and glad when she departed for the garderobe. Idle, he scanned the hall and discovered his moss green witch seated near the dais in lively dialogue with Emrys the harpist and another Welshman, who had a hurdy-gurdy across his lap. A half dozen other young men, including Ned’s tutor, were gathered like fowls round a feed trough. The schoolmaster had his gaze glued to the creamy curves nestled between the teasing voile and the green velvet of Heloise’s bodice, while Rhys ap Thomas’s secretary had positioned himself behind her and was blatantly surveying the tempting adit between her breasts. Her questionable chaperone in this cluster of idolaters was Bess, the girl’s mouth a mournful, downturned crescent as she watched de la Bere fan Heloise’s glowing cheeks with his hat.

The Devil take ‘Lady Haute’! Those slavering wretches would suppose her a bottle already unstoppered, worth swigging from. Well, he must ensure no one broke the seal or he would never be granted an annulment. Besides, if anyone had the right to initiate her, it was him. Displeasure pricked Miles further when Bess cowardly withdrew, leaving Heloise to the lecherous jackals. Tense as a highway brigand about to make an ambush, he watched for Heloise to leave the hall and then, promising Myfannwy to return, he excused himself from the high table.

His annoying quarry avoided the passage past the chapel so he was forced to double round and waylay her on the allure, the wooden gallery that led to the nursery. At least he startled her sufficiently for her to cross herself.

‘I thought you must be a spectre,’ she remarked, not waiting, and jerked to a halt as he stepped onto her purfiled train to tether her.

‘You will wish I was when this little audience is at an end.’

Clasping her forearms across her breast, like bat’s wings against the chill breeze goosefleshing her, Heloise addressed her words towards the wall. ‘Oh, surly are we? I trust you are not making bootmarks on the tail of my gown.’

‘Surly! Yes, and more. Much more.’ The lady’s throat and neck gleamed white in the hazed moonlight, inviting worship, like a treasure he dared not touch.

‘Oh dear, was the Lady Myfannwy such dreary company then?’ Heloise chided. ‘What did she want to talk about – sheep?’

‘Sheep!’ Miles removed his foot. ‘By all the saints, why should Myfannwy want to talk about sheep? We were discussing where our wedding – ah, I see your strategy, mistress vixen. You think to divert me from the matter of charcoal and sore ribs.’

‘Divert you, sir?’ Free of the leather anchor, Heloise was able to swing round on him. ‘No! Pray spew out your anger like a gargoyle and then we may go to bed.’

‘Alone or are you expecting a friend?’ he answered vehemently. Did she do it deliberately or was it his own fault that the word ‘bed’ from her lips conjured up the sensuous image of her, bride-naked before him at Bramley? He had spoken of her becoming his mistress in jest but the thought roused him.

‘Are you worried that I lack company? Only think, sir, if you and I were not concerned about an annulment, I could invite you in.’

A murrain on the witch!

‘Heloise,’ Miles suppressed the urge to shake her, ‘after the way you behaved tonight, I wonder there is not a queue a mile long outside your door.’

‘Explain yourself, sir.’ Icy hauteur laced each word, and now laughter no longer mellowed the air between them, he felt inexplicably bereft.

‘Indeed, I shall, madam.’ He swept his sleeves behind him and paced from her, seeking words that would enforce his grave concern and achieve some revenge. ‘It is true that a married woman may behave with less modesty than an unmarried maiden, but your attempts to behave with more worldliness fall rather short of the mark.’ He paused, thinking he had couched matters with finesse.

Her plain answer was a shock. ‘You mean I need more experience?’

‘Jesu, madam, will you hold your tongue!’ He put a hand to his forehead, distraught by her ability to thwart him. ‘You may be too innocent to be aware that every man in the hall was calculating whether you were fair game tonight. Do you understand what I am saying? I can scarcely make my meaning clearer.’

‘I think you are wrong, for there is no queue, sir.’ Her sleeve fluttered as she gestured to the lonely stone walls surrounding them. ‘Only you.’

Was she playing games with him? He wished this conversation was lit by cressets so he might read her face. He clenched his jaw and tried again.

‘I offer you warning as a friend. You tread a dangerous path with such behaviour, leaving yourself open to … to seduction, or worse.’ He strode away and turned, hands thrust on waist and legs astride. ‘I am telling you, mistress, if we are to dispense with this despicable marriage of ours, you must remain inviolated.’

He was aware of her stillness, unable to tell in the darkness whether it was resentment that kept the words back.

‘How very unjust,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘You may whore as you please and I must remain as unassailable as Pen-y-Fan.’

‘You mistake me, madam. I do not whore,’ he snarled, his anger up and snapping like a mastiff. He paced from her before he lost control completely and – and throttled her. Why did she have to provoke him so? He had not bruised her ears about this morning and he was trying to point out the dangers and – ‘and Pen-y-Fan is not unassailable,’ he muttered pedantically, adding ambiguously, ‘I know the way up.’

With impeccable timing, she allowed the boast to fall awkwardly into the void between them before she remarked with deceptive sweetness, ‘Indeed, I hear you have explored most of the local hillsides. It is common gossip that the duke keeps whores in Llechfaen and Llanfaes. I suppose you do too. Even Bess thinks you are dangerous, but worth consideration. How did Myfannwy take to you?’ That drew a ripe oath. ‘There is no need to swear like that, sir. I am merely observing that—’

‘Mistress, be silent!’ Why was it that every time he tried to point out her errors to her, she held up a mirror to show him his faults? ‘Let me be plain, madam. While you are married to me, you will refrain from dalliance.’ At least she was keeping a meek, respectful silence at long last and Miles continued: ‘I am saying this for your own good. When Holy Church frees us from our oaths, you, lady, must have a reputation as pure as unsullied snow if you wish to find yourself a noble husband. People do not like to be made fools of and, believe me, the world will not look kindly on you for being a maiden and behaving like a …’ Pricktease had been the word that came crudely to mind but that was too harsh a term for her vivacious spirits and too foul a word to be used before any lady of gentle upbringing.

‘—like a mistress?’ retorted Heloise helpfully and received a growl for an answer. Had she rendered him speechless at last? ‘How is it you never told me you were to be wed before this morning?’ she asked, an edge of anger in her tone.

‘Your father knew.’ Miles’s tone was careless. Now that he had finally succeeded in annoying her, his amusement returned. ‘Jealous?’

‘Oh, excessively. I shall warn your bride you may not keep your vows.’ Her voice dropped, ‘What do you intend to do with me, Cysgod, gag me for the duration?’

Oh, she had spirit. There was no denying that he might even miss her as a friend by the time he finally managed to catapult her from his life.

‘By all the saints, lady, you and I are in agreement that our marriage should be annulled, are we not?’ Why would she not look at him? ‘I have arranged for another letter to be delivered that will enable you to leave and leave you shall! Must I be plainer? I want you out of here before I break your infuriating neck.’

‘Is Myfannwy what you want?’

It was her cat arching against his bootcuff out of the darkness that staunched a more honest answer. ‘Jesu, madam,’ he caught his breath. ‘It is not just a handfast.’ He slammed his hand against the wall and turned. Dafydd hissed. ‘The duke wants this alliance and I want her lands, do you hear me? I will compensate you with a house … in Hereford … London, next to the pyramids in Egypt if it pleases me better, but utter one word against my betrothal and—’ He glanced meaningfully past her at the bailey below. ‘Remember, I hanged a man this morning.’

Heloise swallowed, retreating against the wooden planks. ‘I am not afraid of you.’

‘Well, you should be, sweet heart.’

‘Neither you nor your duke can go against Holy Church,’ she protested. ‘Our marr—’

He caught her chin. ‘Oh, but we can.’

‘How?’ she exclaimed, jerking her face away. ‘Only the Pope can grant an annulment.’

‘An annulment, yes. But a bishop may bring a charge of heresy.’

Her tone was freezing. ‘What are you saying, sir?’

‘Just that I would not keep this cat if I were you.’

His unwanted wife flinched as though Miles had struck her. Gathering up the creature, the girl turned away, hugging it to her heart, stroking its ears as she stared forlornly towards the keep, but even the cat played traitor, and sprang to the wooden boards between them.

‘Going to turn me into a rat?’ Miles snarled, hiding his self-loathing.

‘Why should I. You are one already!’

“Christ’s mercy! Must you reduce everything to feelings? This alliance is—’

‘I … do not think it is sensible for us to continue this conversation any longer.’ She turned, drawing herself straight as a lady on a tomb. ‘Besides, Sir Miles, as you have so painstakingly pointed out in such delicate language, if you, sir, are seen talking to me here, it will unquestionably ruin my reputation beyond redempt—’

‘I will see you in Hell!’ he exclaimed with feeling and returned to the feast.

Miles spent the following day blissfully hunting with the duke and his guests, but he returned to ill news from Bess. It seemed that Lady Haute planned to visit the town with the harpist. Damn her! So, before the fires were covered for the night and all the castle gates were bolted, Miles, clad in homespun and a black cloak that enveloped him from head to heels, unlatched the postern and stole forth behind his quarry.

In the April dusk, Miles could almost map his way by the doors: the Honddu carrying the ordure of the castle to the Usk, the perfume of the violets thriving upon the bank, the cloying scents used by the chandlers at North Gate, then other stinks wafting from the town: the cooking smokes of sea coal and firewood, the uglier smell of boiling meat, fresh dung congealing between the uneven cobblestones, rotting refuse mashed by cartwheels, and at Water Gate, the clean smell of planed wood from the joiner’s yard hard by.

But there was also the earthy scent of rain and it was splashing down by the time Miles reached Morgannok Street at the far end of the town. The downpour reduced the sound of his footsteps on the cobbles and let him follow closer. The old man set his arm on Heloise Ballaster’s and drew her into the courtyard of an alehouse, but by the time Miles had traversed the puddled rear of the tavern, they had vanished.

Godsakes, he cursed as he let himself out through the wattle fence into a laneway, he should leave the rebellious wench to her peril save that he did not want some lout fumbling up the foolish innocent’s skirts.

Finding an overhang for shelter, he halted. Above the rain, he heard the river lapping close but where, ye saints, was the plaguey music? What now? Perhaps St Cecily was being charitable, for the shower abated and a poignant cascade of music from Emrys’s harp lured him along the sandstone wall that edged the alley. At the third gate, he tried the latch.

‘Pwy sy na?’ snorted a woman’s voice.

‘Rhyddid i Gymru,’ he murmured. ‘Cerddoriaeth uned ni.’

Satisfied, the woman led him through a passageway, dark as Purgatory and stinking of stale urine and spilt ale, and down stone steps into a hot cellar lit by naught but a blazing fire. It was some sort of forge. The smoke stung his eyes before he was able to make out a dozen or so people perched on sacks or crates. All Welsh, he guessed. One fellow cradled a stretched hide with jingles in its frame, another nursed a viola. Ruddy in the flickering flames, Emrys’s thicket brows and flowing hair, rivuletting over his bared forearms, gave him the mien of Welsh god, Govannon the weapon-maker. The slender shadow beside him, sensibly hooded, must be Heloise. Save for a man and woman conversing in whispers to his left, they were all listening to the singer, a huge man in his forties, sweaty-faced, black-maned and fiercely bearded, with a belly that overstretched his belt, and an ale pot in his hand.

Miles slid into the darkest corner, but did not hesitate to intercept the leather bottle being passed around. The contents nearly ripped the inside from his throat.

Despite his quarryman’s complexion, the singer’s voice was wondrously rich. His huge ribcage, built for resonance, threw out so ardent a song of reprisal against the English that Miles, whose Welsh was keen enough to understand most of it, felt his blood run cold.

As the last verse ended to cheers and laughter, the only Englishman in their midst was rigid, anxious to leave. A rebellion? Christ!

‘Pah, Lewis,’ taunted someone. ‘Why brawl over an English whore when there are plenty of pretty tits in Wales to fondle!’ Miles reddened, both thankful that Heloise could not understand their crudity, and ashamed of his suspicions; there might be treason, but this song was merely a personal feud.

The viola player was urging Emrys back into the firelight. God’s rood, the old man was girted! The first soul-wrenching plaintive chords banished the bawdy laughter. The mountains and woods of Wales surged into Miles’s consciousness. He could hear the rain in the song lashing the leaves. Like a mythical hero, he strode beside the singer down the slopes and stood beside the splashing streams.

Setting down his harp, Emrys cleared his throat, breaking the spell that bound them to their memories. ‘I have a surprise,’ he announced. ‘I brought with me a young woman from the castle.’

‘Surprise! Emrys, you old dotard,’ muttered someone. ‘Will you get us hanged?’

‘No, rest you, am I a block, an ass? I tell you she understands not one word of our speech but she sings like an angel. You must hear her.

‘Uncover. Free your hair,’ he said in English, rising to take his guest by the wrist. At least she was refusing. ‘Be yourself, bach,’ Emrys was saying, setting back her hood with a bardlike authority. ‘It matters not if you are wife or maid, lad or lady. All are equal among my people, wel di.’

As if she was under an enchantment, Heloise removed the coif and shook her braids free like an elfin maid for all to see. Silver hair tumbled over her plain russet kirtle like living metal in the fire’s light. Did she not understand the danger? At night men are spellcast but in the day they see, they remember, differently.

‘Sing, arianlais, as I taught you.’

Her voice, husky at first, warmed to a beautiful clarity, the words powerful and wrenching, a trumpet to arms against her countrymen.

Did she understand? She sang it so poignantly that Miles felt a sadness to choke because he knew the words in his own tongue – the hatred and the hope:

‘More!’ Slapping their thighs, the musicians were openhanded in praise. Even Heloise, cheeks pink as gillyflowers, understood. She shook her head and rose from the singer’s stool, but she let them press a cup into her hand, and was both thirsty and exultant enough to gulp it down.

‘Un arall? Iechyd da!’ Laughing, they filled it again and the bard called Lewis heaved himself back and launched into a ribald drinking song. Others joined in – the man with the wooden flute and the young tabor player – but their eyes, like everyone else’s, kept flickering back to the Englishwoman. The nervous sipping betrayed her naiveté though she seemed at ease, smiling as they teased her in Welsh. Two of the men grew lewd in their remarks and Emrys, although his voice was calm so as not to panic their visitor, sat down beside her protectively, hissing rebukes.

Mercy, how long before the old man took her back? How much drink would they tip down her? She was whispering to Emrys, who beckoned one of the women over; she needed the latrine. At last! Miles slid off the palliasse by the wall and stealthily made his way to the door.

He heard the women’s voices ahead in the yard. With luck he might get her away now but two of the Welsh had come out to relieve themselves against the wall. The rain had cleared and a moon, splendid as a pagan scimitar, was free of clouds.

As Miles stole out to hinder his wife, fierce arms grabbed him and drew him kicking back to the cellar. Rough hands flung him on his front, wrenching his right arm behind his back. Someone seized a flaming faggot from the fire and thrust it towards his head. Miles preferred to breathe in the dust than struggle for air and be recognised.

‘We have a spy, it seems.’ Someone thrust back his hood and seized a fistful of hair, trying to make him show his face.

‘Mistress!’ Miles mimicked a servant’s shriek, as he heard the women returning.

The cold air of the passageway must have slapped Heloise’s senses clear for she pushed in between his captors.

‘Mistress,’ he wailed as pitifully as he could, squinting to see Heloise’s face. She was blinking at the sleek, greased hair plastered back from his brow. Was there light enow? Was she sober enough to know him in disguise? Well, if her fey mind was open to messages, she had better receive this one or he was a dead man.

Heloise wobbled, she put a hand to her mouth and then gave a bubbly laugh. ‘You think … Oh no, this is my servant,’ she spluttered, taking the brand and tossing it back in the embers. ‘You knave!’ She waggled a finger close to his nose. ‘I told you not to disclose yourself.’ Her drunken giggles were not subsiding.

‘What’s he adoin’ skulkin’ around in the shadows outside?’ His captor gave another vicious jerk upon his arm.

‘Let me go, masters,’ Miles wailed, his nose pressed hard against the dirt. ‘Don’t let ’em harm me, mistress.’

‘I thought I could trust you not to bring strangers into our midst, Emrys,’ bawled Lewis, no longer indulgent. ‘And a sais too.’

‘I never saw him afore.’ Suspicion larded the old man’s English.

‘No, no, of course you have not,’ Heloise answered cheerfully. ‘He is but late from Kent.’ Miles watched like a Cyclops as Heloise patted the minstrel’s sleeve. Evidently she had perceived the rivalry between the bards. ‘Master Emrys, I-I am sorry. No disrespect, but I felt I needed a doughtier escort to see me back.’

‘Doughtier! Pah!’ Lewis’s guffaw of laughter was reassuring them. ‘You need a real man, benyw!’ His hand patted his codpiece.

Miles’s arm was freed. He moved it painfully forwards and stayed face down. The humility irked him but it was safest.

‘Get up, man.’ Heloise nudged him with her foot. ‘They mean you no harm.’ He lifted himself onto his hands and knees, blowing his cheeks out sulkily to give his lean face more breadth. His wife sat down again, spreading her skirts, and indicated that he should sit at her feet, so he snatched up his ale cup and lumbered across to her, rubbing his face to mask his cheeks and remembering to keep his shoulders bent in servile fashion to hide his true height.

‘Two songs more and then I must leave,’ she exclaimed merrily and raised her cup toasting them all. ‘My servant will see me back, Emrys. You must stay and sing again. Make music until morning. Here, Tom.’ She tilted her cup and poured half its contents into Miles’s.

His lower lip apucker, he took it sulkily, hoping one of the Welsh lads had not dosed it to make her more amenable. Inside he was thanking God that these musicians were all the worse for drinking. His millstone lady was tapping her foot to the music, and it was easy, sprawled as he was, to slide his hand around her ankle meaningfully. She smiled down at him, clapping her hands, and nodded, but she did not rise.

His fingers rose above the slender ankle, enjoying the smooth slope of her calf. It was wonderful what modesty that drew forth; as the piece ended, she stood up, trying her nursery Welsh in bidding them ‘Nos da’. Emrys she bussed upon the cheek and then sweetly blowing kisses to them all, disappeared up the stairs. With a mumble and a touch of forelock, Miles fled after her and taking her by the elbow, hurried her across the shining puddles.

‘I did not know you liked Welsh epics,’ she giggled, when they reached the street.

‘Tell me the one about the foolish English virgin. You should know it backwards.’

Heloise tried to stamp her foot at him. Grammercy, she had not asked the rogue to hazard a beating! ‘That is not—’

‘Christ Almighty!’ She found herself swung into a doorway with his hand clamped over her mouth. ‘I risked my life coming after you tonight, madam.’

‘Why in Heaven bother?’ Heloise retorted in a fierce whisper as he loosened her. His hand had left her with a gravelly taste.

‘Such gratitude. Because, lady simpleton, if you are ravished by a Welshman whoreson in the high street, I shall never be free of you and will have to suffer an egg smelling of leeks in my marital nest.’

‘Well, it would serve you right. Are you going to see me back or are we to huddle here like adulterers while you lecture me all night?’

‘I thought I was a decent Christian man,’ he growled, grabbing her hand and hauling her along. ‘I reckon Job in the holy scriptures was better off.’

‘What’s that to the point?’

‘He mainly suffered boils. Why God has saddled me with such a shrew as you, I cannot fathom.’

‘Because you hang men and dislike children and kill innocent bees.’ That retort brought him up short. ‘And I … I rescued you just now, you ungrateful man!’

‘Lady, be quiet! You are making enough noise to bring the watch from Bulith, let alone the next street.’

‘Well, you are ungrateful.’

‘Hush!’

‘Huussssssssh!’

Miles cursed. His chance of taking her through the streets without discovery looked nigh impossible and if they were found together, he would be stuck in a marital rut with her forever. If he could sober her … He hauled her along a laneway towards the river and into a doorway built into the town wall.

‘What is this?’ She struggled to free her hand, stumbling in the darkness as he hauled her up a spiral stair into a watch tower.

‘Somewhere to stare at Pen-y-Fan by moonlight while you regain your sobriety. Get down.’ A fierce hand forced her to crouch. ‘I want to make sure we have not been followed.’ He stooped beside her, listening intently, and then tensely edged upwards as though he expected a volley of arrows to come flying in if he stuck his head up. ‘I hope your magical powers run to alarum bells,’ he muttered.

Heloise muffled a giggle. ‘There is nothing here, sir, but the tylwyth teg, and us.’

He ducked back down. ‘Faeries, that is all I need. We have enough problems already from the underworld – of Brecknock, that is. What is so amusing?’

‘You, you are so gloriously serious.’

‘I think you mean sober, which is more than you are.’ He played sentry again. ‘Our luck is in, it seems.’ A hand, warm and dusty, located one of hers. ‘I should have learned by now that danger and you skip hand in hand and it always embroils me.’

Upright, she untangled her feet and surveyed an enchanted world. Below them flowed the Usk, black as Lethe with the cleared moon broken in shards and glossed upon its waves. Gables and ridges, shingles and tiles, all sleek with rain, glinted in silence like an altar painting. Torches burned at the castle, but half-heartedly as though the stones themselves were slumbering. But the wind was blowing from Pen-y-Fan, something was shifting.

Miles, scanning the gaps of cobble and dirt between the dwellings, was listing lethal possibilities. Murder? Bootcaps and fists applied strategically to rib and groin in reprisal for the hanging? A bloody means to stop the alliance with ap Thomas? Rape of the lily maiden at his side? Why in Hell had he brought her up here?

‘Best that we wait a little longer,’ he advised, and taking a corner of his damp cloak wiped the forge dust from his face. They should leave now. What had begun in the orchard had to be withstood now but the ache was growing.

‘There is no harm – yet.’ Her words were a soft sigh with the ripple of willow leaves. ‘I would know … and it is all right,’ she continued in a steady little voice. ‘I actually drank very little.’

Ha, is the earth round? Shapeshifter!

‘I am sorry that I put you at risk,’ she ventured softly, as if afraid to leave the abyss of silence between them unbridged. ‘It was kind of you to come after me.’

‘Kind?’ You are my possession. ‘Lady, I have been at great pains to build up a reputation that will shake some respect out of the Welsh. God knows who is behind this little adventure of ours and it is not over yet. There is still some price to be paid.’ His grim tone warned against the perils involved in baiting him. God’s mercy, but he was trying not to imagine the feel of her.

At his back, the bells of the abbey pealed in another saint’s day.

‘England is full of walls,’ she whispered, slithering her fingertips over the sandstone. ‘Castles, abbeys, towns, anchorite cells …’

Miles understood, or thought he did, but he had no answer; his thoughts were running widdershins, his sideways gaze lingering where it should not. He had seen her in so many forms – like a jewel toppled upon his palm but now … God in heaven, why did she have to look so ethereal and lovely, and stand so damnably close that he could smell her fragrance.

‘But music can steal through walls and conquer kingdoms,’ he observed. ‘That was sedition at work, my lady.’

‘Perhaps, sir, but their songs and voices were so beautiful. Speak gently and bid the sky no more to glower, nor cast a veil across the moon. I shall not forget tonight.’

His mind was reeling, he had tasted loneliness, the river pouring mercilessly through the arc of stones, like sand through the glass of time.

‘Nor I,’ he added wryly, drawing his cuff across his mouth. ‘I still have the taste of ashes in my mouth.’

‘Have you no heart, Cysgod?’ she chided, laughing, turning to aim small fists playfully against his chest. ‘Is there no poetry in you tonight?’

‘There is a great deal,’ Miles answered, with a Welsh lilt, ‘and it is mostly Anglo-Saxon and the theme is getting you back to the castle without having our throats cut. As for my heart,’ he laughed, ‘I keep it where the Welsh can’t steal it, see. I advise you to do the same, cariad.’ And then he added in his own voice, ‘Are you cold?’

‘No, please,’ she protested, staying his hand from untying his cloak.

‘At least I can keep the cruel wind from you.’ Hands, ungoverned by mind, spun her and drew her back against his shoulder. It took all his will to keep his hands armouring her shoulders and prevent them straying where his lips longed to touch; his imagination was divine sedition and utter torture.

Heloise held her breath. Loath to cut herself free from the spell that was winding, she felt the hardness of Rushden’s body like a stake against her back. Was this the passion that the saints denied themselves? This other fire kindled beneath her skirts? To confess her heresy would destroy her. Take him now, she could hear her father saying. Make him burn for you. Oh, if she were Dionysia, she would wind a halter of seduction around his neck and press her soft belly against his thighs. But for Heloise Ballaster, there would be no forgiveness in the morning; Rushden would call her passion wanton and her surrender cunning, because to become her lover he must become her husband. Oh, her inexperienced hands were shackled, but she wanted to misbehave so desperately, to taste the words of love upon his breath.

What shall I do? Her soul called out across the river to the ancient ones, the faeries that watched over her, and peace came with the rustling of the grasses. Look at the moon, whispered her inner being, is she not a veiled Diana staring out towards the planets, mourning Actaeon?

‘Are you a changeling, Heloise?’ The man’s voice at last eased the silence, his words warm against her cheek. ‘Is that what you believe?’ It was a step across the ice. A coil of woven words thrown out might help him reach her.

With a fragile happiness, she leaned back, surrendering to the moment.

‘I see things ordinary—’ she corrected herself, ‘others never do.’ The answer was here, but this man would not know that just by standing with her in this stone turret like a king, that a spell was being cast.

‘Are there voices in the bells?’ Jeanne d’Arc?

‘Not for me.’ She shuddered, sheathing her hands into her loose sleeves.

‘You are trembling.’ The man’s hands slid down to clasp hers beneath her breasts. ‘Not long now.’ Until …

‘An owl, look!’ she exclaimed delightedly as the grey wings skimmed soundlessly past their turret.

‘The lady Bloedeuedd perhaps,’ he said softly, his arms falling lower, hands splaying across her, melding her against his hardness. ‘Born of flowers, bewitched into an owl for being unfaithful.’ His voice was close, so seductively close. ‘What else do you see?’

‘I-I saw … foresaw … a fire consuming the thatch beyond the church.’

Rushden did not answer straightway. ‘Highly likely,’ he murmured. ‘Do you feel the fire as well as see it?’ The fire, yes, she wanted to turn within his arms so badly. ‘And people, Heloise? The orchard …’

‘I felt your mother’s pain.’ Her breathing was growing swift.

‘And us, Heloise?’ So y Cysgod was hunting in the darkness for the future.

At least loosened, her silver hair could hide her face as she stared downward as if she were watching the torches ignite the wood beneath her. ‘No, not us. Something else is – I cannot tell.’ Wretchedly, she flung herself free. ‘For there is no pattern, you see, it is more like …’ She was babbling but … ‘more like a glimpse of a page from someone else’s story and then the book is closed. I do not hold the keys to the clasps either. Nor do I seek the lock. As you warned me yesterday, sir, I might be … burned for it.’

His finger was gentle beneath her chin. ‘Then tell no one.’

‘I have told no one.’

‘Lady … you have just told me … I am your greatest enemy.’

‘But I trust you.’ Her eyes were shimmering with more than moonlight.

‘Well, do not.’ He lowered his head. ‘Expediency is the enemy of loyalty and all men are traitors when it comes to—’

‘—to what?’ The question was a dreamy sigh; the answer … a shadow eclipsing heaven. Oh, she wanted this more than anything in her whole life.

‘This.’ His fingers tangled in her hair, holding her face to await his pleasure, tantalising her until she could have screamed for him to kiss her with open lips – and open heart. She would not dare to beg.

‘Heloise!’ He drew his lower lip along hers. She could have tempted Lucifer back to Heaven. His hands fastened possessively around her waist beneath her cloak and slid upwards, marvelling at how wonderful she felt, her body sweet and delicate and close.

‘No!’ Frail manacles closed suddenly about his wrists. She pulled away, leaving him aroused, unsatisfied. ‘Think of Myfannwy …’

‘Myfannwy! When the moon is out you cannot see the stars.’

‘I do not want to be your mistress,’ she protested. ‘I do not want to be bought a little house in Hereford and the neighbours whispering, “There goes Sir Miles Rushden’s whore when he can spare the time”.’

Miles did what any quick-witted man would do, pushed beyond endurance, to hush a lovely woman. He kissed her properly. It was his error. Heloise Ballaster tasted of mead – but such flowers, such divinity, that he felt like a god in tasting her. Within the girdle of his fingers, her waist was delicate, and her hair moonlight, celestial fire, about them both. As he deepened the kiss with a tender hunger, it was as if a magic surrounded them and some arcane power was touching a taper to pendant drops of light on either side of a path to welcome him to another world. Bewitched, he recognised himself inspired, renewed, as though the shackles that bound him to the humdrum earth were severed one by one.

‘Heloise.’ He had never felt like this before.

As if she understood the raw hunger in his voice, her laughter brushed his mouth and she drew back, her hair tiptoeing upon the fingers splayed against her back.

Miles had committed sacrilege, yet at whose bidding? ‘I should not have done that,’ he told her and hoped divine forgiveness was possible.

‘No,’ she whispered, siren’s fingers running across his lips. ‘You should not have.’

Miles felt dazed, lunatick. He took her face once more between his palms and lowered his mouth to hers. His lips told her that he wanted her surrender, that only in his conquest would she find her truth.

Heloise slid her arms up round his neck and wreathed her fingers into his hair. He was her destiny, her black, ruthless, desirable knight. Her thighs were turning to fire as he kissed her neck, her throat, his hands fondling and stroking with an urgency.

But the magic suddenly fled and the most profound feeling of imminent evil surged into her mind.

‘No.’ She pushed at his chest, her heart beat frantic. ‘Something is wrong. Let me go! You must!’

‘Curse you, Heloise.’

The iron bands of his arms freed her; sweat pearled upon his pale forehead.

She shrank against the wall, fighting against her soul’s desire, wondering what power had dragged her from him, and struggled to reason.

‘Yes, curse, Miles Rushden. But if I let you take what you do not want, tomorrow you will call me “whore” and “witch”.’

‘Come here!’ Thirst for her serrated his angry voice.

‘You did this of your own free will,’ she exclaimed and sped off down the steps like a fleeing princess. ‘You said so.’

He hastened after her, grabbing at the cloak and gaining no purchase but, as he caught her to him on the last step, a nearby dog barked a fierce alarum. They froze, no longer melded in desire but waiting. He held his breath, his fingers tense in the furrows between her ribs, his heart beating behind her shoulderblade as she leaned against him. Oh, this was the evil. Not Rushden! Out of the darkness, three men came at them with cudgels.

‘Hide!’ Rushden protectively flung her sideways out the way of the attackers and quickly drew a dagger from his boot.

Cursing, Heloise landed indecorously amidst a pile of rubbish and scrambled round to face the enemy. Her husband had wrapped his cloak about his left arm as a buckler, but with no long steel to make the assailants keep their distance, he was hard pressed.

‘Dal y ferch!’ She instinctively knew the Welsh was meant for her. She must attract help at any cost. Swiftly clambering to her feet, Heloise sang forth her highest, most piercing note while her fingers fumbled in her purse for her only weapon.

‘Christ Almighty!’ exclaimed Rushden, laughing even though he was besieged on the first step. ‘It must be the figs!’ As she drew breath, a choir of adjacent dogs took over, and tapers in the nearby dwellings suddenly flamed behind the shutters.

‘Diawl!’ One of the brigands charged at her.

‘Come on!’ she gasped and hurled the powder into his face.

‘Putain!’ A hand clutching his eyes, the large man staggered back. His sudden blindness gave her the chance to kick at his kneecap with all her strength. Wrenching his cudgel away, she whammed it behind the second man’s knees, sending him sprawling onto Rushden’s blade like a paid bill for spiking.

‘Jesu, lady, I could hire you out when we next invade France!’ Miles struggled to free the blade as the third man hurtled at him. Fleet of foot, he sprang aside. The vicious club smashed down against the steps. He slammed the side of his fist hard down on the fellow’s neck, then with a hefty kick drove him crashing into the fence. But his assailant staggered back. Jerking free his cloak, Miles flung it in the other’s face and leapt upon his enemy.

It might be Rushden she cudgelled if she interfered, thought Heloise, as the two men rolled across the stony ground.

‘Be off, the pack o’ yer!’ bawled a woman and a bucket of pisswater hit the ground.

The rogue must have heard the thud of boots upon the cobbles.

‘Awn!’ he yelled, no longer struggling, and Rushden dragged him to his feet and hurled him at his staggering friend. The pair hurtled back against the wall. ‘Dere ’mlaen!’ Grabbing the blinded man’s belt, the third ruffian hauled him lumbering into the darkness.

‘As if I have not enough trouble,’ growled Rushden. ‘There will be the Devil to pay for this night’s work. The watch! Come on!’

‘But …’

Godsakes, thought Miles, would she play physician? ‘Come!’ With a fierce arm about her waist, he sped her up the lane and into an alley just as the town watch arrived at the tower.

Her breath was ragged, her heart crying mercy, as they reached the end of Shepe Street. ‘Come on, mistress! If the watch catch us …’

‘Yes, I know,’ she panted. ‘I will have to have your children.’ He recoiled as if her body was fire. ‘Go on without me,’ she gasped, glimpsing his shocked face, pale as a handsome wraith’s, before she bent over, hands clasping her knees, her side burning as if she had been spiked by the Devil’s trident.

‘Easy, changeling.’ Strong hands steadied her shoulders and held her against him until the painful stitches had eased. ‘What was it you threw at the fellow, elfin dust?’

‘Honest flour,’ she panted. ‘Did you think I would venture out unarmed?’

‘My brave wench.’ His soft laughter heartened her. ‘I forget how skilled you are in combat.’ Once more he set his arm about her waist and half-supporting her, drew her up towards the postern. She stooped and edged past below the window like a thief, while he kept the watchman talking. The clink of money echoed.

‘May a man not visit his mistress without the whole castle knowing?’ grumbled Rushden, his miserliness feigned. More jingled into the waiting palm. His curses were still audible until he caught up with Heloise in the bailey. ‘To bed with you, lady!’

‘Upon my soul, I am truly sorry I endangered you,’ she whispered, running her hand along his sleeve before they parted.

‘You endanger me all the time, Heloise,’ he answered cryptically and, like a night hawk, vanished into the shadows.