Hostage Bride

‘I do not think I should like you to be killed,’ Rosamunde said, looking at him shyly. ‘You are so brave. The hound could have bitten you but you did not think of yourself.’

‘It was nothing. I knew the dog was too strong for you. He would not have stopped until he had the kitten and, since you would not let go, you could have been seriously injured.’

‘Raphael. Here to me, sirrah. I need you.’

‘My master calls me,’ Raphael said. ‘Sir Harold of Fernshaw trained me as his squire and I owe him allegiance. If it were not for him, I should not have this opportunity. Excuse me, little mistress. I have work to do.’

‘My name is Rosamunde,’ she whispered but she did not know if he heard her. ‘When you return to England, visit us again, sir. I shall be here waiting for you.’

The young man turned his head and smiled at her once more. Rosamunde’s heart raced, her breath quickening. She was only a child, but the men would be many years at the Crusades and by the time they returned she would be a woman.

Would Raphael remember her? She would never forget him but perhaps he believed her merely a child. His thoughts were only of the Holy Land and the adventures he would discover there.

‘Come back safely,’ she murmured as she stroked the kitten and kissed its soft head. ‘I shall not forget you, Raphael. One day I pray we shall meet again.’

Chapter One

In the year of our Lord 1193

‘Messalina! God help me …’ Raphael awoke from the nightmare, his body dripping with perspiration. Putting out his hand, he discovered that the bed beside him was empty and cold. He had been dreaming of his late wife, of the terrible day a few months ago when he’d discovered that she was dead, lost to him for all time. ‘Forgive me. I should have been there. I should have protected you, my dear one.’

He moaned as the agony swept over him. His beautiful, young and lovely wife was dead and it was his fault. She’d begged him not to leave her that fateful night, but he had unwound her soft white arms from about his neck and told her he must go.

‘This is war, Messalina. I have been summoned by King Richard to a meeting and must obey his orders.

Things do not go as well as Richard would have liked and we may have to leave the Holy Land without gaining all we came for.’

‘Leave? You speak of leaving, of returning to your own land?’ Messalina’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Will you leave without me?’

‘You are my wife. When I return to England you will come with me.’

‘What of my father? How can I leave him here alone to face his last years without his daughter?’

‘I shall speak to your father tomorrow when I know more of the King’s plans,’ he’d promised—but in the morning both his wife and her father were dead, murdered by renegade Saracens.

His guilt lay heavy on his conscience for he knew that he need not have attended the meeting but had gone because he wanted to spend a little time with the knights who were his friends that night. Messalina was beautiful and he had been fond of her, like a man might be fond of a spaniel puppy, but she had clung to him and wept, and soon after wedding her he had realised that he did not love her as he ought.

He was not sure why he’d wed her, except that her father had offered her to him, and her shy smile had been appealing to a young man flushed with success from fighting a holy war. He had rescued both her and her father from ruffians who had sought to rob the wealthy merchant, and their gratitude had been flattering. Jacob had begged him to give them his protection and take his daughter and her fortune as his reward. He had wanted to protect both Messalina and her father and now felt that he had betrayed them. Yet it was more than that. Perhaps he was not capable of giving the deep love Messalina had needed, but he had genuinely cared for her, and now that she was dead his guilt haunted him day and night.

Leaving his bed, Raphael found cold water in the ewer and washed his face and body. His skin was bronzed by the sun of the Holy Land, his muscles honed by years of fighting and training in the art of warfare. The scars he’d received in battle had faded with time. He was drying himself when the door of his chamber opened and his servant Janquil entered.

‘Yes?’ he barked and then checked himself for he alone was to blame for the betrayal of Messalina. Janquil held no blame of any kind. ‘There is news?’

‘We have discovered the goldsmith you seek, my lord. It is but a day’s ride across the border into Normandy.’

‘Then we shall leave as soon as the others are ready. I must settle this business and then perhaps I shall have peace.’

The squire inclined his head, his dark eyes inscrutable. Raphael knew that the man was part-Saracen and part-Jew, a combination that had led to him being reviled and spat upon by the people of Acre. His mother’s people hated him for being the son of a Muslim and his father’s people thought him unworthy to be one of them. His parents had lived as outcasts in their village and when they had died of a virulent fever Janquil had sought work in Acre. For some years he’d worked as a house servant to a wealthy Jew but when Saladin took the city his master had been murdered.

When King Richard recaptured the city, Raphael had found the young man shivering and ill, near to starving. He had taken him to his quarters, nursed him and fed him, refusing to give him up as a prisoner. Janquil declined to leave after he recovered, saying that his life belonged to Raphael.

When Raphael and his friends had decided to make the long journey back to England, Janquil had asked to accompany him.

‘My country is very different to yours. You may wish you had stayed here, my friend.’

‘My life is yours. If I cannot serve you there is no purpose for me.’

Raphael put the memories to one side. He had become wealthy in the Holy Land, as had some of his friends, but there was also a fortune in Normandy lodged with a Jew his late father-in-law had trusted. Jacob would expect Raphael to claim it; they had been friends, and more than friends—almost as father and son. It was because Raphael had saved Jacob’s life that he had given him his most precious treasure—his daughter, Messalina.

Perhaps if he settled his business the nightmares would leave him to rest in peace.

Rosamunde was mending a tunic. It was her second best and she had torn it while out gathering herbs and berries for her cures. Her stitches were neat and she could not afford cloth to make a new one, because she would not ask her father for money. He had none to give her and would merely be distressed that she was in need.

Sir Randolph had almost beggared himself entertaining the King and his knights before they had gone on the third crusade. Since then he had contributed generously by sending young men from his manor to join Richard in the Holy Land, and he had recently given three-hundred gold talents towards paying the huge ransom demanded for Richard’s release.

When Sir Randolph had finally discovered that his debts were too deep to allow for a decent life for his daughter, he had decided that she must enter her cousin Angelina’s service. So Rosamunde had been sent to her uncle, Count Torrs, only to discover that he was leaving England for the Low Countries. The count had accepted his late sister’s daughter and Angelina had taken her into her service. Angelina was to stay with her uncle in Normandy until such time as her father returned from his travels, and so Rosamunde had travelled to France with her cousin.

At first, Rosamunde’s life had not been too bad, but as time passed Angelina seemed to dislike Rosamunde and gave her all the tedious tasks to perform. Rosamunde knew that her father had hoped she would make a life for herself in her kinswoman’s service, because there was little for her at home. She had no dowry to give to a husband and it was unlikely that anyone would offer for her without at least a small portion. Since coming to France, she had tried very hard to please her cousin, but Angelina was selfish and uncaring, and Rosamunde found it more and more difficult to accept her life. If she had not believed that her father would find her a burden to support, she would have returned home months ago.

Her only hope lay in King Richard’s return. If he were restored to his throne, he might find it in his heart to reward her father for past loyalty. A small pension would make all the difference and then perhaps Rosamunde could return to her home.

Sighing, she placed the tunic she’d been mending in her coffer and then went to look out of the narrow window. Since Rosamunde had no further work to occupy her, she might as well go in search of their hostess, Lady Saxenburg, and enquire if she could be of assistance to her.

About to leave on her errand, she was surprised when the door of her chamber opened and Angelina entered. Rosamunde felt a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck. It was not often that her cousin came to find Rosamunde; she was normally sent for by one of the other serving women.

‘Cousin, may I do something for you? I was looking for work since I have finished all the mending.’

‘You will be pleased to know we are to journey to England,’ Angelina said. ‘You should pack your things, Rosamunde, and then come to help me. I have set my other ladies to packing my things but only Margaret is to accompany us. Sir Thomas, who is a family friend, and his men will be our escorts.’

‘England?’ Rosamunde’s spirits lifted. ‘I am so glad, cousin. Perhaps I shall find time to visit my father. Do we go to your father’s home? Has his mission in the Low Countries been successful?’

‘We go on my father’s behalf,’ Angelina said. ‘It may be that you will have time to visit your father, but we shall speak of this when we reach England.’

‘I cannot thank you enough. Your uncle and aunt have made us welcome here in Normandy, but I prefer England. You must be glad to be going home too?’

‘I have no choice in the matter.’ Angelina’s gaze went over her. ‘That tunic is shabby, Rosamunde. Have you no others?’

‘This is the tunic I use for every day but I have two others.’

Angelina’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have grown shabbier; I had not noticed. I shall make you a gift of three tunics and a surcoat. You cannot attend me looking as you do, cousin. You will have time on the ship to make any adjustments you need.’

‘Cousin …’ Rosamunde’s cheeks stung. Angelina’s gift was generous but made in such a way that it humiliated her. ‘I … You are generous.’

Why was her cousin being so generous to her? Angelina had made it plain from the start that she did not like her cousin or wish to have her as one of her ladies—so why this sudden kindness? Something was not quite right.

‘I wish you to look well, cousin. We shall pass your home on our journey. You may visit your father, but remember your loyalty is to me. Perhaps if you serve me as I wish a marriage might be arranged for you. I dare say a knight might be found to wed you for fifty gold talents.’

‘I do not have even ten gold talents, cousin.’