sprang from her arms and shot off in the direction of the stables. She gave a startled cry. Her companion turned at once to see what had caused her distress and she sucked at the wound on her hand.
“Little beast,” she remarked ruefully, as he bent to examine the hurt.
“Cat scratches can be nasty,” he warned. “You must ask your lady mother for some tansy salve.”
She nodded. His large hand was holding her slender small one very gently and she felt suddenly uncomfortable in his presence. This stranger had a way of making her aware of her own childish folly in attempting to rescue the kitten without uttering one word of disapproval—yet why should she heed a passing stranger, an inferior to boot? She was about to point out the way to the back door into the kitchen quarters and quickly rid herself of his disturbing presence when her father’s voice came from the top of the steps leading up to the hall.
“Anne, where have you been? Your mother has sent out more than one woman to find you—” He broke off abruptly, staring at the two of them across the courtyard; then, with that grace of movement Anne always associated with her handsome father, he leaped easily down the steps and covered the distance between them quickly.
“Dickon? Dickon Allard, is it really you?”
The newcomer laughed. “Indeed it is, Sir Guy. It seems a long time since I came to Rushton Manor.”
Anne watched in dawning horror as her father took the stranger’s strong brown hands into his own grasp and squeezed them affectionately, then he pulled the man close and clasped him to his heart.
“You are welcome as always, Dickon, you know that. Margaret will be delighted to see you. Come in immediately and get warm near the hall fire. We must order food for you at once. How far did you travel today?” He stepped back apace, frowning, somewhat puzzled. “Where is your horse, man?”
Again Anne heard that deep-throated chuckle. “My mare cast a shoe about a mile and a half back, so I led her to the nearest village smithy. The smith said it would be quite a long job so I thought I’d come on here and fetch her later. I was stiff in the saddle, have ridden from Leicester this morning; the walk has loosened me up.”
Anne could not meet the man’s eyes. Richard Allard, the son of her father’s friend, Sir Dominick Allard, the man whom Sir Guy Jarvis had served for years as squire—and she had treated him like a servant! Her blue eyes flashed dangerous fire. He must have known well enough who she was.
Why hadn’t he announced himself immediately and not left her to jump to so unfortunate a conclusion? How was she to know? The man had arrived on foot, plainly dressed, if not shabbily, and carrying his own valise like a pedlar his pack. Could she be blamed for treating him so condescendingly?
Her father was regarding her and she flushed under his critical scrutiny.
“I see you and my Anne have met already. I trust she made you welcome?”
Anne waited in dread for the visitor’s reply. He was facing her now, his grey eyes dancing with amusement, doubtless at her discomfiture.
“Mistress Anne greeted me very warmly, Sir Guy, and, like you, was very anxious to assure my comfort. She instantly thought how hungry I must be feeling.” He turned to his host as a servant hastened up to relieve him of his valise. “In truth, I am not hungry, just saddle sore, as I said, but I broke my fast at the village inn where I waited for the smith’s verdict about my mare. I can certainly wait until supper, but I would welcome an opportunity to bathe.”
“Of course, of course. Come first and greet Margaret. How are your parents? I trust your father’s old wound does not still trouble him?”
“He still limps, sir. I’m afraid he will carry that reminder of the final charge at Redmoor until his dying day but in himself he keeps well and my mother is blooming, as ever. To me she is the epitome of the Nut Brown Maid of the ballad. Each time I come home to Wensleydale from my travels I expect to see her changed, or, at least, some traces of grey in her hair, for my father’s temples are as grey as a badger’s these days, but she is as lovely as I remember her when I left.”
Anne was aware that both her father and Sir Dominick Allard had served in the household of the late King Richard and had fought side by side in his last fatal battle and defeat at Redmoor near the little market town of Bosworth in Leicestershire in 1485.
Sir Dominick had taken a severe wound to his thigh in the charge in which his King had met his death, a wound that still troubled him, one that had kept him from fighting in Lord Lovell’s attempt the following year at East Stoke near Newark to place the pretender Lambert Simnel on the throne. That battle had proved as ill fated as Redmoor and King Henry had triumphed again. Anne had heard it whispered about the manor that her father had taken part in it, but had managed to return home in secret without his treason being discovered.
“I’m delighted to hear they keep well and hope, one day soon, to see them both again.”
Sir Guy linked arms with Richard Allard and led the way up the steps into the manor hall, Anne trailing behind. She looked anxiously round for Ned to join them but he was still remaining out of the way near the river. Sweet Virgin, her mother would demand an account of her meeting with their visitor, especially in view of the condition of Anne’s torn gown and her green-stained cloak. What could she say, how explain her boorish behaviour?
So far Richard Allard had kept the circumstances of their encounter to himself. Would he continue to do so? She did not deserve so much consideration. Now that she thought about it, his very manner and bearing, as well as his speech and mode of address, should have established him in her mind as a man of standing. How could she have been so crass?
Her beloved father appeared almost slight and spare beside this bear of a man. Sir Guy’s fair hair, as ever, was dressed elegantly and his handsome features were alight with pure pleasure at Richard Allard’s arrival. He led him swiftly to the comfort of the blazing fire in the hall’s fine heraldically decorated fireplace and summoned a servant to bring ale and wine and take the visitor’s cloak.
“Anne, go at once to the solar and inform your mother that Dickon Allard is here. She will issue orders for the preparation of a chamber. Where is Ned? He should be here too to greet our honoured guest.”
“Fishing in the Nene,” she said promptly and, meeting Dickon Allard’s smiling eyes, made him her first quick curtsy. Then, grateful to be out of his presence for a while, she sped off to the solar to break the news to her mother. With her hand on the door knob she reflected that perhaps it would have been better had her father allowed her to remain in the hall. At least she would have heard what Richard Allard said to him.
Margaret Jarvis looked up hastily as her daughter entered. She was sewing at the dark blue velvet of a new-fashioned French hood and was alone. Her dark brows rose in interrogation as Anne swept in, her cloak billowing behind her.
“There you are. I have been looking for you. I wished to try this on you for size. Goodness, child, what have you been doing to your clothes? You know your father’s means are limited these days. You should take more care. It is bad enough that Ned tears his hose, but you should know better.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but a kitten got caught up a tree and just would not come down. I had to climb. There was no one else nearby. He is safe now.”
The child was breathless and evidently excited. Margaret was surprised. Just lately nothing had excited Anne or pleased her. Indeed, Margaret reflected, had she behaved so badly as her daughter had done recently, her own father would have taken a switch to her. Guy had held his hand and Margaret had admired his patience with the girl. Her own had been fast running out.
The whole of the trouble lay in the fact that Dionysia Gresham had left their neighbouring manor to enter the Countess of Chester’s household and would, most likely, attend her mistress at court at Westminster. Anne sorely missed her friend’s company but there was more to it than that. Although the reasons for her own ineligibility to attend a noble household had been explained to her often enough, Anne had never really accepted them.