His eyes glittered in the uncertain glow of the brand and were startlingly blue, flecked with greenish lights. Clare possessed a lump of turquoise her father had bought for her once at Leicester Fair, which he had had enclosed in gold for her and which now hung from the end of a favourite girdle. The colour of those eyes of his were like the changing hue of the stone, now glinting steely and hard, narrowed in considered grief for those he had lost.
His nose was dominating and the small bump on the bridge which spoilt its line spoke of some blow he had possibly received from an opponent in a bout of fisticuffs. He was square jawed, the chin deep split in a dimpled cleft. Yes, Clare thought, women would find this man overwhelmingly attractive and men, too, would admire the manly clean lines of that face and the rangy, hard-muscled strength of that tall form.
‘I am sorry for your loss, sir,’ she said softly, and instantly he smiled again, though she thought it more wintry this time, less winning.
He gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘Men have often said war is hell,’ he said briefly, ‘though I would not describe this attack as war, merely an unprovoked raid which had unfortunate consequences for all concerned.’
She realised he was totally unarmed, dressed in a shirt of homespun linsey woolsey and a leathern jerkin over grey woollen hose. Clearly the Devane household had not expected an attack and had been seated comfortably by their own hearths when the alarm had been sounded by their watchman on the gatehouse. Probably this man, Robert Devane, had only recently returned from a ride or inspection of the manor land, for he was wearing riding boots. Her own brother and uncle had been well armoured and prepared, in breastplates and gorgets over padded gambesons.
She gave the faintest of sighs and felt Sir Gilbert’s sergeant move restlessly behind her. The man was clearly impatient for her to complete her task so that he might lock up his valuable prisoner for the night, confident of his safe keeping until the morning. Sir Gilbert, she knew, was not the man to overlook any negligence in his subordinates. The man her maid had despatched had come back now with a patched but clean shirt of homespun and the woman hastily snatched it from his grasp.
Clare turned to the sergeant behind her. ‘We shall be quite safe with this man, since I know you will keep a close guard outside. I shall need more room for my work. Leave us, please.’
The man was obviously unwilling. He pursed his lips uncertainly, having received careful instructions from Sir Gilbert to keep a careful watch on his niece but her hard stare was insistent that he obey her and she could come to no harm surely with his men so near, ready to be summoned instantly, should she have need of them. He grimaced in disapproval but made her a respectful nod and withdrew.
The turquoise eyes of the prisoner danced in amusement. ‘You appear to have a way with underlings, mistress. Did you, perhaps, wish to be alone with me?’
She darted him a glance of withering scorn. ‘I cannot imagine, sir, why you should think I might have such a purpose. I never enjoy the company of piratical scum, for such I hear you are. As I explained to my sergeant, I need room for my task. Now, let us get on with it without delay.’
He had slid back into a sitting position against the wall now and was regarding her coolly.
‘So you have received instructions to patch me up fairly, so Sir Gilbert can hang me tomorrow in full view of his men, without fear of being accused of having his men forced to half carry me to the gallows.’
She said evenly, ‘I understand you are to be conveyed to Coventry when you are fit to travel, sir. There will be no unlawful trial here. The King himself will decide your fate after a fair hearing.’
‘And that she-wolf Margaret will determine the way of it.’ His blue eyes had narrowed again. She noted he had long curling lashes tipped with gold like a maid’s.
With the maid’s help she withdrew his left riding boot.
She was bending close now over the injured limb, seated upon the ground before him, her box of unguents and medical requirements opened before her, and her maid was pouring water into the basin.
Clare took the small pair of scissors that hung at her belt and were used normally for her embroidery, to cut open the bloodstained wool of his hose and reveal the gaping wound, long and deep, clearly made by a sword thrust. It ran from the knee slantwise almost to the ankle and she made a little moue of concern at the sight of it.
‘I’m afraid this will hurt, but I think it should be stitched.’
Again he gave that half-rueful shrug which she took to be permission to proceed and she motioned her servant forward. He made no sound while she washed and cleansed the wound, nor did he comment when she took her sharpest and finest steel needle and finest linen thread and made ready to draw the puckered edges together. First she had cleansed the wound thoroughly with a herbal infusion and rubbed in tansy ointment.
His lips tightened as he leaned back against the wall and she glanced mutely up at him to signal that she intended to begin the painful process of stitching the wound. He nodded, his lips parting in a faint smile, but she read apprehension in his eyes. She had watched her mother perform this service several times and had heard the cries and seen the struggles of men held down by companions who had needed such treatment.
She wondered briefly if she could call the sergeant from outside to steady her patient but she caught his expression and the almost imperceptible nod of his chin and she bent to her task. He made little fuss, with only one or two faint catches of breath, but she knew she had pained him. When it was over and she had padded the wound and bound the improvised bandage into place, she saw him lean back again, his body sagging a little as relief had its way.
‘Dorcas, go to the buttery and fetch me some brandy wine and also a bottle of burgundy. This man has lost a deal of blood and needs to make it up. Keep the bottles beneath your cloak. I do not wish the men outside to see what you bring.’
Dorcas nodded and bustled out with the basin and jug of now-bloodied water.
Blue-green eyes regarded Clare steadily. ‘I see you intend to ensure that I am fit to travel tomorrow,’ he said mockingly.
‘You will not want to faint in the saddle, I’m sure, sir,’ she retorted.
‘But you are cossetting me. I hardly think your uncle would approve of your providing me with good wine. Bread and water is all I’m like to receive from the guards out there. Is it that you think I should enjoy some last comforts before I die?’
‘I think,’ she said quietly, ‘that you should consider seriously your crimes and what has brought us all to this, especially your dead kin and mine.’
The green-blue eyes flashed dangerously. ‘You think I do not grieve because I do not weep?’ he demanded harshly. ‘As for the cause of all this, don’t you think the price was over-high for the value of one small sucking pig?’
She sucked in breath. He had put into words too closely her own view of the matter and she could find no words with which to answer him. Then she recovered somewhat and said stiffly, ‘My uncle says you are indeed guilty of piracy. Is that true? Did you prey upon shipping and harm women and innocent travellers?’
Amusement lit up his features again and she knew instinctively that he used this show of raillery to hide the true depths of his grief. ‘Women rarely complain of my treatment of them.’
She coloured hotly. He had a way of making her acutely embarrassed yet he was her prisoner.
‘Nevertheless…’
‘Nevertheless, this quarrel between princes is no fault of mine. I serve my master, my lord Earl of Warwick, as your father and brother—and your uncle—served the King. The Yorkist lords were forced to flee to Calais after treachery brought down the castle at Ludlow. Calais is in the control of my lord Earl but hunger and shortage of supplies could well have forced him out. We attacked Lancastrian shipping merely to survive.’
‘I doubt if the King