Christmas At The Tudor Court: The Queen's Christmas Summons / The Warrior's Winter Bride

She thought of Juan, hidden at the abbey, and she sat straight up in bed. Had he been discovered? Was he being dragged to Bingham even now? Cold fear raced through her.

She jumped to the floor and wrapped her bed robe around her shoulders as she ran to the window. It was still night, but surely near dawn, for the darkness was touched at the horizon with a faint glow. The courtyard below was crowded with her father’s men, many of them just fastening their jerkins and pulling on cloaks as if they had been hastily summoned from their beds. She couldn’t see any organisation to their racings and shouts, though.

She had to find Juan.

She hastily pulled on her gown, a simple woollen house dress she could lace herself, with no sleeves. She stuffed her feet into her boots and hurried into the corridor. She saw servants running towards the stairs and some coming up them, but could make no sense to it.

She glimpsed Molly from the laundry and grabbed the girl’s arm as she dashed past. ‘Molly! What is happening?’

The girl turned her freckled, tearstained face towards Alys. ‘Oh, my lady! They say the village has been set afire. We’re being attacked!’

Alys stared at her in shock. ‘The village? Have Bingham’s men returned?’

‘I don’t know, my lady. Maybe it’s the Spanish! They’ve come to kill us in our beds after all!’

Alys thought again of Juan and hoped he stayed where he was in the dairy. ‘Where is my father? Or his guest, Sir Matthew Morgan?’

‘I haven’t seen Sir Matthew. Sir William is in the courtyard.’ Her sobs broke out again and she covered her face with her apron.

Alys gave her a little shake. She almost wanted to start crying in confusion herself, but there was not time to be wasted thus. She had to keep her wits about her if she was to find out what was happening. ‘Go gather some supplies to take into the village, then. No matter what, there are people who will need food and blankets come morning. I will find my father.’

As Alys hurried to the stairs, she remembered the strange feeling Sir Matthew had given her, as if he watched everything around him too carefully, especially her. Could he be a spy of some sort, his visit to Dunboyton a cover for something? She made her way up the stairs to his chamber and knocked on the door. There was no reply, no sound at all, and when she peeked inside she found it was empty. All his possessions were gone.

Panicked now in truth, she ran out to the courtyard and found her father just as he was swinging into his saddle. He wore chainmail beneath his cloak and his face was taut and grey in the torchlight.

‘Father!’ she called out. She dashed past the other horsemen and foot soldiers, grasping his stirrup. ‘What is happening?’

He gave her a grim smile. ‘I fear the village has been set alight, but no one seems to know why. There are rumours they were hiding Spanish spies.’

Juan. Had he been found? ‘Is it Bingham again? What has he found exactly?’

‘I don’t know yet, but I am riding out now to find out. You must stay here, bar the doors until I return.’

‘Sir Matthew has gone.’

Her father nodded grimly. ‘Aye, I thought as much. He has his work to do, just as we do. I must go now, Alys. Do as I say!’

Her father spurred his horse onward and Alys watched as his men followed him out of the castle. The gates to the courtyard swung shut behind them. She knew she had to hurry.

She didn’t even go back to the castle to grab a cloak, she just ran to the kitchen-garden wall and climbed it to make her way to the steps up to the abbey. The dawn was coming now, lighting the familiar path. She tried to focus on one step after another, not thinking about what might lie in wait at the abbey. Could it be in flames, too?

Much to her relief, when she came over the top of the hill and glimpsed the old stones of the abbey, she saw all was quiet there. Perhaps too quiet? There was no smoke from the chimney of the dairy, no sign of any life at all.

‘Juan? Are you here?’ she called as she pushed open the door. But she knew even as she said the words that he was gone. There was only the chill staleness of abandonment about the room again.

It was almost as if he had never been there at all.

Alys tiptoed to the middle of the chamber and turned in a circle to take it all in. The fire was gone, leaving only ashes in the grate, the blankets of his makeshift bed folded and piled in a corner. There were no clothes. Had it truly been a dream? Had he been a dream?

Alys closed her eyes, and in her imagination she remembered their kiss. The fire and sweetness of it, the way it made her feel as if she could fly free into the sunshine. She thought of his sea-green eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. The deep, rich sound of his laughter.

Nay. It had not been a dream. But perhaps it had been her imagining, those feelings, that smile. It had not meant to him what it had to her. How could it?

She opened her eyes and saw that the room was not entirely abandoned. She glimpsed something perched atop the old milking stool. As she moved closer, she saw it was the small block of wood he had been carving. It was not blank now, though, but formed into the delicate shape of an angel. Her pointed wings were etched with elegant feathers, her hands clasped before the folds of her robe, her expression one of sweet smiling. Her long hair tumbled over her shoulders, a whisper of a halo around her head.

Alys lifted it up and examined it closely, as if it could tell her the secrets of Juan, where he had gone, who he truly was. She remembered how he had called her his angel, his merciful rescuer, but she feared she was no angel. She was too frightened, too angry at his sudden departure from her life to find any such heavenly serenity.

And this carved angel was mute. Alys tucked her into the hidden pocket of her skirt and, as she did so, something fell from the tip of its carved wing and fell with a clink to the floor. A beam of moonlight gleamed on it.

Alys stooped to pick it up. It was the gold ring she had seen so often on Juan’s finger. Now, up close, she saw the band was worn with use. There was something etched on its face, but she could not make it out in the shadows.

‘Where is he?’ she whispered as she turned the ring over on her palm. Who was he, really? Such desperate longings rose up in her to know, yet she feared she never would now. He was gone and whatever he was to her was gone with him.

She slid the ring on to her finger, and ran to the door as if she could look hard enough to find him again. Yet she knew she would not see him, no matter how far she ran or how hard she looked. He was gone, vanished from her life as quickly as he had appeared. That glimpse of excitement and adventure she had with him, the fire of his kiss, the feeling of not being alone at last—it was gone.

She had known such a moment would soon come. He could not stay hidden here at the abbey for ever. Yet losing him so quickly hurt far more than she would have expected. It was like an arrow through her chest, almost a physical pain.

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