Her Battle-Scarred Knight
Her Battle-Scarred Knight
Meriel Fuller
WOUNDED SOLDIER When he returns from the Crusades, battle-scarred and tortured by painful memories, it is only Count Giseux de St-Loup’s code of chivalry that sees him escorting a sharp-tongued spitfire of a lady on a quest to help her injured brother.WAYWARD LADY The beautiful Lady Brianna is fiercely independent, and finds his powerful presence disturbing. As the danger surrounding her grows deeper, Giseux is forced to extend his protection further than either of them ever wanted it to go…
‘Giseux,’ she said loudly. ‘Giseux, wake up!’
In response, his fingers clawed into his upper thigh, the sinews in his hand rigid, straining. Snaring the muscular bulk of his shoulders between her hands, she tried to shake him, tried to lift his upper body from the ground. But to no avail: he was too heavy. In desperation her eyes searched the cottage interior, the uneven walls, for something that might help, before a sudden bizarre idea touched her.
Blood hurtled through her veins, blossoming in the skin of her face.
Hands on his shoulders, she dipped her head. Kissed him.
Her soft lips touched his firm mouth in a last attempt to hush the demons of the night that claimed him. A dangerous warmth stole over her, melting her limbs, turning the muscles in her knees to useless mush; she shuddered, striving to hold her body away from him. It was only a kiss, she told herself. A simple device to alleviate his distress. Yet the touch of his mouth spiralled each nerve in her body to a singing desire, a yearning for more.
About the Author
MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history—particularly the early medieval period—makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past, and has made her research a special treat.
Novels by the same author:
CONQUEST BRIDE
THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE
THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE
CAPTURED BY THE WARRIOR
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Her Battle-Scarred Knight
Meriel Fuller
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Chapter One
Sefanoc, Wiltshire, England—January 1193
Brianna leaned her cheek against the cow’s yielding flank, fingers reaching under the animal to squeeze blood-warm milk from the udder. In the early morning stillness of the byre, the liquid squirted noisily against the sides of the wooden pail, steaming in the chill air. She heard William, the farmer, talking softly to one of the cows at the other end of the byre, imagined him budging one animal out of the way, so he could start milking the next cow in line. He was much faster than her, milking two cows to her one. But his wife was ill this morning and Brianna had offered to help when he’d come knocking at the door of the manor house, blowing on his hands to warm them, his breath puffing white in the darkness. They couldn’t afford to lose the milk; it was a vital source of income in these hard times. As with other estates, most of their money had been taken by King Richard to fund his crusade to the Holy Land. The manor was earning very little; she had enough coin to pay the farmer and his wife, who maintained the land and livestock, and Alys, who had served her family since Brianna was a child. ‘Mistress! My lady!’
Brianna jumped at the shrill, tremulous warning, startled from the soporific rhythm of the milking. Her maidservant stood in the doorway, her face white, body quivering with fear.
‘Alys, what is it?’ Brianna twisted around on the milking stool, her auburn braids gleaming in the dim light of the byre.
Alys’s eyes grew wide, the thin skin of her face stretched over her bony cheeks. ‘They’ve come back. Count John’s men; they’re looking for you.’
Brianna grinned. ‘Well, they won’t find me at home, will they, Alys?’ She patted the cow’s flank, extricating the half-full bucket from beneath the pink udders. ‘I’ll put this in the churn, William. Butter sells quickly at the market.’
William stood, resting one hand on a cow’s rump to lever himself up. ‘Aye, you do that, mistress. Martha can churn, if she’s feeling better. If not, I’ll do it myself.’ He tipped his head, topped with a mop of grizzled grey hair, in the direction of the manor. ‘Do you want me to go and see what’s happening?’
Brianna shook her head, clutching the pail of slopping milk to her middle as she rose to her feet.
‘Oh, but, mistress, you’re never going to go yourself?’ Alys gabbled, her breath coming in short little pants. ‘There’s more of them this time, with torches, circling around, one of them banging on the door.’ She shuddered. ‘I slipped out the back of the kitchen … came to find you. What if they do something to our home? What if they … torch it?’
Brianna laid a hand on Alys’s shoulder. ‘Alys, you must calm down … they wouldn’t do such a thing. It’s the manor and lands that the Count wishes, remember. And they can’t have it because I’m in their way.’
‘They’re stronger than you, mistress.’
‘But I’m cleverer than most of their thick skulls put together.’
‘Count John won’t stop until he has what he wants, my lady.’
Brianna put one hand to her forehead, smiling. ‘Please don’t remind me, Alys. But I have no intention of being forcibly married off to one of those thugs, as I’ve made perfectly clear in several letters to Count John himself.’
Alys bit her lip. ‘That Count is the devil himself, mistress, and he’ll stop at nothing to give the manor of Sefanoc, and you, to one of his men.’
Brianna’s light blue eyes blazed in the dimness of the byre. ‘The manor of Sefanoc is not his to give away. It belongs to Hugh.’
Doubt flickered across the maidservant’s face.
‘Hugh will be back soon,’ Brianna reassured her. ‘Everything will be fine once he returns.’
‘But …’ The servant’s voice faltered.
‘Alys, I forbid you to look like that! Hugh will be back. He’s obviously been delayed on the journey in some way.’
‘The Somervilles have returned, and the de Laceys,’ Alys reminded her.
‘And they remember seeing Hugh waiting for the boats on the beach in France,’ Brianna replied, plucking at a loose thread on her girdle. ‘My brother will be back soon. Now, come on, Alys, you can help us finish this milking.’
A crack of sunlight appeared across the eastern horizon as Brianna emerged from the warmth of the barn, drawing the hood of her short woollen cape securely over her head, covering the bright red-gold of her hair. She stepped lightly across the cobbles in the direction of her home. Her hands ached from the effort of milking so many cows; flexing her fingers, she tried to relieve the stiffness. Alys had stayed behind to churn the butter, the wan, exhausted face of the farmer’s wife indicating to Brianna that she would be in no fit state to do anything today.
Rather than return home by the shorter route, through the forest, she decided to cut through the flat fields to the north—hopefully the open ground would enable her to spot Count John’s men if they had decided to linger. It had been some time since Alys had raised the alarm, so it was entirely possibly that they had returned to Count John’s castle at nearby Merleberge to break their fast. As her feet skipped across the frosted grass, she prayed they had become bored and hungry with the wait. Men like that, with no self-discipline, no stamina, couldn’t last for long without food in their bellies.
Ducking through a gap in the stubby hawthorn hedge that divided two fields, she bit her lip. Despite her solid, confident smile in front of Alys and the farmer, she wondered how long she could hold out against the King’s powerful younger brother. How long would it be before her own brother came home from the Crusades? A tight coil of fear began to unravel in her gut; she clamped it down fiercely before it gained momentum. She would hold out for as long as it took, she told herself sternly, she must protect and defend the manor of Sefanoc in Hugh’s name. Instinctively her fingers moved towards the thick belt slung low around her neat waist, checking the knife in its scabbard that hung from it—the knife that would keep her safe.
Her feet broke through the thin layer of ice covering the standing water spread out in patches on the low-lying field, and squelched into the cold mud beneath, water seeping between the thick leather sole and uppers of her stout boots. The river, its course marked by an occasional stubby willow, the bright orange branches shining bright and straight in the rising sun, had flooded regularly this winter. The cattle had been restricted in the amount of grass they had to eat and the farmer had been forced to dig into their precious supplies of stored hay in order to supplement their diet. For a moment, she paused, sweeping her eye back over the field, assessing the amount of damage the most recent flood had wrought, and how much grass there was left for her dairy herd.
‘Good morning, my lady Brianna.’
Her heart leapt in fright; the voice shocked through her, low and dangerous, a slick ripple of fear. She raised her eyes reluctantly to the man on the horse, a man, it seemed, who had appeared from nowhere. And behind him, two other soldiers on horseback, their surcoats bearing the colours of Count John.
‘Lord Fulke.’ She nodded with the briefest deference to the older man who had first addressed her. His buff-coloured tunic strained across his round belly as he adjusted his position in the saddle, the split sides revealing fleshy thighs stuffed into brown woollen braies. His iron-grey hair was thick, a greasy mat against his scalp.
‘What an unexpected pleasure!’ Lord Fulke exclaimed, his voice a sarcastic falsetto. He nudged his horse so that his booted foot in the stirrup moved on to a level with her chest. The other two soldiers, one darkly scowling, one a fresh-faced youth, manoeuvred their horses around to box her in at her back. She was surrounded. Her chest tightened, but she would not, nay, could not, panic. They would not harm her, they wouldn’t dare! They had been sent to harass her, to force her to agree to Count John’s ridiculous plan. They hoped to wear her down by their constant intimidation, but it wouldn’t work!
‘Let me pass, Lord Fulke.’ Brianna fought to keep her voice level, calm. ‘You have nothing to gain from
this.’
Lord Fulke snorted with laughter, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, some streaked with black, others a particularly nasty yellow hue. ‘On the contrary, my dear lady, we have everything to gain. If only you would agree to the alliance with Hubert of Winterbourne, life would be so much easier for you.’
‘And I’ve told you before—’ Brianna tossed her head back ‘—Sefanoc is not mine to give away.’ Crossing her arms over her middle to disguise her actions, Brianna clasped her fingers around the hilt of the knife.
Lord Fulke’s heavy frame thumped down before her as he dismounted. Up close, he was about the same height as her, wide and thickset. His foul breath wafted over her as he spoke. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, my lady,’ he continued silkily. ‘Your brother is most certainly dead; he will not return now from the Crusades. All our men are home.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘And the manor of Sefanoc needs a lord in charge.’
‘Over my dead body.’ Brianna expelled the words in a hiss of breath. ‘You have no right to do this; you know I have the protection of King Richard …’
‘But King Richard isn’t here, is he?’
‘He will return, just like my brother! Now let me pass!’ In one swift, neat movement, she pulled the knife from its scabbard, holding the point to Lord Fulke’s chest. Shock clogged the man’s face; the two soldiers behind her moved in. One grabbed her shoulders to jerk her back sharply, the other knocked the knife away with a short, painful chopping motion, the side of his hand against her wrist.
Lord Fulke cleared his throat, adjusted his belt self-consciously on his padded hips. ‘You’ve been without a man in charge for too long, it seems.’ He licked his lips in a curious half-smile, eyes running lecherously over Brianna’s diminutive figure, the perfect oval of her face. ‘Your conduct is unseemly, wilful. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated in a lady; it seems we need to teach you a lesson. You will soon come to your senses, young lady. We will make sure of it.’
Count Giseux de St-Loup urged the muscled flanks of his stallion up the narrow sheep track to the brow of the ridge, leaning his tall frame forwards in the saddle to hasten the animal’s ascent. His chainmail hauberk glinted dully in the morning sun, the bright orb partially obscured by wisps of white cloud. Halting the animal at the top of the escarpment, Giseux let the reins drop, lifting both hands to remove his iron conical helmet to reveal a lean, tanned face, bruises of exhaustion dabbed beneath grey eyes. Flapping open his leather saddlebag, he grabbed his water bottle, pulling the cork stopper to drink deep. The cool, sweet-tasting water poured down his throat like an elixir, driving back the waves of tiredness, reviving him. Wiping his mouth on the leather pad sewn against the palm of his chainmail mittens, he replaced the water bottle, then swept his gaze across the soft countryside below him, one hand unconsciously kneading at the dull ache in his upper
thigh.
From this high vantage point, he could see the castle at Merleberge rising up out of the river mist as if it floated on air; a castle that Count John had made his own whilst his older brother, King Richard, was away on crusade. The valley fell away in gentle scoops of green, ridges rolling away into the distance, fading blue. Even the jagged nakedness of the deciduous trees in winter—the scrappy hawthorn, the majestic oak—all served to enhance, not detract, from the beauty of this winter landscape. His eye was unaccustomed to such sights and his mind baulked against it, resented it. Such exquisiteness made him restless, irritable, after the years he had spent on crusade: savage days spent marching endlessly through the scorching sand, pushing his men through inhospitable rocky valleys, a constant craving for water. But strangely, whilst all of his soldiers were relieved to be home, he wanted to be back there, back in those wretched conditions, pitting the strength of his mind and body against the elements, the sheer effort of keeping himself alive driving his mind from deeper, darker thoughts. He craved the harsh light of Jerusalem, needed it, deserved it.
But the crusade was finished, over; the agreement had been signed between King Richard and Saladin. Both sides, both Christians and Saracens, had won. In his heart, the victory seemed hollow, pointless, after so many lives had been lost in the process. The lives of his men in one of the last raids on Narsuf. And the life of … His hands tightened around the reins, seeking balance as the familiar rage, the guilt that haunted his days and nights, rose within him … nay, he would not think of that now. Soon enough he would find the traitor who had turned against them, avenge his soldiers’ deaths … and hers. But now, he had to fulfil a promise to a fellow knight. He hoped it wouldn’t take him too long.
‘Will you agree?’ Lord Fulke yanked Brianna’s head from the water trough once more, podgy fingers snarled in her wet, dripping hair, twisting the strands tight, like a rope, pulling viciously against her scalp. She fought the urge to yelp with pain, gritting her teeth in determination; she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. Her short-lived marriage to Walter had taught her that, at least. Bracing her knees against the wooden trough, lined with puddled clay to provide drinking water for the cattle, she clutched at the rim with red-raw fingers, steeling herself for the next onslaught. Her wide blue eyes, lashes spiked darkly wet, blazed with fury.
‘How dare you do this to me?’ she managed to stutter out through lips purplish-blue with cold. ‘The King will hear of this!’
‘But nobody knows where he is, my lady,’ Fulke reminded her. ‘And until we know, we can do what we
like.’
Her heart plummeted as he shoved her head beneath the water once more. They had broken the ice on the surface after they had manhandled her over to the corner of the field where the trough was situated. The water was freezing, instantly numbing the skin on her face, driving nails of ice into her ears, her eyes, her nose. Brianna held her breath for as long as she could, before allowing the air from her lungs to leak out slowly, hoping, praying that they would pull her out before … before she ran out. Desperation plucked at her chest, a scythe of panic. Surely they wouldn’t kill her? Doubt crept into her mind, whispering, insidious, forcing her to acknowledge her vulnerability; she sagged momentarily as her chest began to burn. Then the cruel yank of Fulke’s fist at the back of her head pulled her up again, and she gasped, sucked greedily, filling her lungs with fresh air.
‘There is an easier way, my dear,’ Lord Fulke commented smoothly, throwing a disparaging bloodshot glance over her dripping face, her sodden braids. ‘You need to agree … agree to this marriage.’
‘Never,’ she vowed. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’ She crossed her arms over her chest, clutching at her arms in an effort to stop the incessant shivering. Threads of water trailed down her neck, beneath the collar of her cloak, wetting the rough fabric of her gown.
Lord Fulke mangled his thick lips into the semblance of a smile. ‘Let’s hope that it won’t come to that.’ The threat in his voice was unmistakable.
Fear coursed through her body, firing bolts of adrenalin straight to her heart. So they would kill her! She needed time, time to think, time to plan! But judging from the menacing look in Fulke’s eyes, time was one thing she did not have. Closing her eyes, she pretended to faint, falling in a crumpled heap to the ground, up against the edge of the trough, her hand scrabbling about behind her in the mud for something, anything, that might be able to help her. A stone! Her fingers grazed against its roughness, cupped it swiftly into her palm. She hoped it would be enough.
Fulke cursed, eyes flicking moodily over the slumped figure.
‘She’s had enough, now, hasn’t she, my lord?’ one of the other soldiers remarked.
‘Don’t let the chit fool you, Stephen. She’s a clever piece.’
Brianna smelled the wash of Fulke’s noxious breath as he leaned down to her. Tightening her grip on the stone, she brought it round to smash it against his head with all the force she could muster. Only it wasn’t enough. The gritty stone dropped from her fingers.
‘Why, you little …!’ Fulke roared, clutching at the gash on his forehead. The purpling cut oozed blood, startlingly red against the white slab of his forehead. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ Before Brianna had time to anticipate his next move, the weight of his fist crashed into her jaw and her small frame crumpled to the ground, this time for real.
‘We’ve got her now,’ Fulke murmured, almost to himself. ‘We’ve got her now.’ He rose to his full height, jubilant, smug victory painted on his face, expecting to meet the smirking expressions of his younger henchmen.
But the soldiers’ faces were turned away, fixed on the open gateway, slack-jawed, staring at something, someone. One of the men stumbled back, catching the back of his leg on the trough.
Alongside the scrubby hawthorn hedge, a huge black destrier flew across the marshy field, snorting impatiently, wildly, rearing its glossy head in a restless jangle of bit and bridle as it approached the three men, the fallen maid. Sprays of water flicked out from behind the horse’s heavy hooves, loose droplets forming sparkling arcs in the weak sunlight.
A nervous laugh punched from Fulke’s mouth; he licked his lips.
A black woollen tunic covered the horseman’s chainmail; his shield was black, decorated with a raised silver lattice. No markings gave away his identity, no gilded family crest on the shield, no embroidery across his tunic; a bright steel helmet obscured his features. Hauling deftly on the reins, the unknown rider brought the animal slewing to a stop before the men, shuffled into a guilty line in front of Brianna, trying to hide the horrific extent of their intimidation with the bulk of their bodies. The warm air emerging from the horse’s widening nostrils ghosted the air, steam rising from the very pit of hell.
‘What the devil is happening here?’ Through the slits of his helmet, the knight’s voice was muffled, grim. He jumped off the horse in one easy, graceful movement, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached Fulke.
‘Nothing to concern yourself about, I’m sure, my lord.’ Fulke bowed obsequiously, spreading his hands flat before him, as if to physically reassure the newcomer there was no harm done. He cowered beneath the stranger’s superior height, trying to step back before realising that the huddled form of Brianna lay behind his heels, checking him. ‘This ignorant maid simply refuses to do as she’s told. She needed to learn a lesson.’
‘Then it looks like she’s learned it,’ the stranger remarked tautly, sweeping his gaze over Brianna’s forlorn frame, tumbled against the trough. From her appearance, the maid was still unconscious; her face was pale, deathly pale, a livid bruise darkening rapidly across her jawline.
Fulke had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘Aye, well, we best be on our way.’ He nodded significantly at his two soldiers, rubbing his gloved hands together in an industrious way. ‘Lots to do, lots to do.’ He paused, staring with curiosity at the plain, unadorned wool of the knight’s tunic, trying to discern the man’s features through the forbidding slits in his helmet. ‘I … er … are you from hereabouts?’
‘Nay. I am looking for someone.’
‘Mayhap I could help you.’ Fulke squeezed his hands together, kneading his fingers. He felt the need to make amends, to distract this stranger from the unconscious maid at his back. ‘Whom do you seek?’
‘Brianna of Sefanoc. Lady Brianna. I was told that she lives hereabouts.’
The colour washed from Fulke’s face; he touched a hand to his chin, a self-conscious gesture. It was all he could do to stop himself looking over at the girl; he prayed fervently that his soldiers would keep their mouths shut. If certain parties heard a whisper of their actions, their treatment of a noblewoman, they would be punished severely. His name, Fulke, would be linked back to Count John, his lord and master, who would be highly displeased at the exposure, especially now. These were troubled times, the whole country jittery with the news that King Richard had been taken prisoner on his return from the Crusades. Only Count John, the King’s younger brother, was rubbing his hands with glee, for if Richard failed to return, then he would surely be crowned King of England.
Fulke screwed the thicket of his eyebrows together in a semblance of thinking. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her,’ he lied casually, carefully. ‘It’s not a name I know.’ He began to sidle off towards the horses. ‘I wish you luck in your venture, sire. Good day to you.’ Fulke levered himself onto his animal, raising an arm in farewell as he kicked the animal into a fast canter, clods of frozen earth kicking up in his wake as he followed his men.
The maid appeared barely alive, Giseux thought, as he approached the spot where she lay. Crouching down beside her, he pulled off his chainmail mittens, pushing two fingers efficiently against the side of her neck, checking, reassuring himself. Her face was so white, devoid of any colour, with such a sickening blueness about her lips that he could have believed she were dead, yet to his relief her blood beat strongly beneath his fingers. He removed his helmet, then his shield, held against his chest with a worn leather strap, placing both on the grass, and pushed back the hood of the chainmail protecting his head. The metallic links, bound together to form a flexible material, fell in loose, snake-like folds at the nape of his neck; the light brown strands of his hair sprung free from their confinement, vigorous.
She lay flat on her back, sprawled across the ice-encrusted mud, one arm slung across her body, the other stretched out, her hand curled, small and white. Her unusual amber-coloured hair, darkened by the water, straggled across her bodice like ripples in the sand. A peasant girl, from the look of her clothes, he thought; her coarse woollen gown had been mended in several places with crudely cut patches. The garment hung like a sack about her frame, bunching in thick gathers at her waist; her creased leather boots, scuffed and caked in mud, stuck out from beneath the hem of her skirts. The shiny soles were almost worn through. He’d interrupted a domestic dispute, no doubt, a fight between servant and master.
The girl opened her eyes.
Chapter Two
Giseux’s heart knocked against the wall of his chest. Sudden. Unexpected. Sounds diminished, fell away into the background: the incessant chirruping of a robin, diving under the blackthorn; his horse ripping up the frosted grass with massive teeth, chewing steadily. The maid’s eyes were wide, bright blue, ice blue, luminescent as the sky at dawn. They snared him, sucked him into their amazing depths, a whirlpool so fast and strong that he had no time to think. His mind reeled within their power as he leaned forwards, amazed.
As he dropped to his knees, Brianna cried out—a long wavering wail of panic, the bundled-up fear bursting from her chest, fear that she had fought to keep under control throughout Fulke’s mauling. And now he’d sent someone else to deal with her. Her vision hazed with fright as the huge soldier hulked over her, silver eyes sparkling with a predatory gleam; he would surely kill her! Broad shoulders blocked out the light, cast her in shadow, as her knuckles scraped desperately against the rough wooden trough, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of stability as she screamed and screamed. Would no one come for her, would no one help her? Her shrieking rent the still air, piercing, pitching up a notch as firm hands curled about her shoulders, steadied her.
‘Stop!’ a low voice ordered, a rippling burr of sound close to her ear. ‘Do you want to bring them back?’ The warmth of the man’s breath fanned her cheek, before he lowered his hands.
Her mouth shut abruptly. Pain in the left side of her jaw chewed into her, relentless, an ache beginning to spread up the side of her cheek. Blood tasted like rust against her tongue. Tears sprung from her eyes, her body trembling, as she hoisted herself up awkwardly, flinging her arms out to push the stranger away. Her fingers flailed outwards, skittering over the black wool across his immense chest; her pathetic attempts failed to shift him. Exhausted by unravelling fear, she let her arms fall limply to her sides.
‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Brianna stuttered out, her voice a weak thread; her lips were dry, bruised. Energy seeped from her body, her small frame slumping back against the trough, her breathing rapid, truncated, puffing clouds of white in the cold air. The leather lace securing her braid had loosened; now the curling end was beginning to unravel, the magnificent amber hair shining against the sagging weave of her brown bodice. ‘But I’d rather be locked up, or dead, than do what you want me to do.’ The man’s intimidating grey eyes glittered over her, incisive, piercing, as if they drilled down into her very soul. Another wave of panic lurched up, pushing out the sides of her chest, and she dug her heels into the mud, intending to scrabble backwards if he came for her.
Sitting back on his heels, Giseux watched the trails of sparkling liquid track down her puffy, mottled cheek, heard the great, gasping sobs seize at her chest. The girl obviously believed him to be in league with the thugs who had just roughed her up. A tiny pulse beat frantically at her neck, beneath the white, fragile skin in the hollow of her throat; her fear of him was palpable, radiating from her body in waves of tension. The sight of her tears bit into him, tugged cruelly at his memory, but he clamped down firmly on the encroaching vision. He had no wish to remember.
‘Easy, maid,’ he said in his deep, rumbling voice. The words of comfort felt untested, awkward, like dusty rocks in his mouth. The battle for Jerusalem had been long and relentless; there had been little opportunity or time to offer solace to others—had he forgotten how? Or had the ugliness, the cruelty of fighting driven it from his soul? The hard frozen earth jagged into his knees; as he shifted, trying to ease his cramped calf muscles, she reared backwards, abruptly, like a wild, cornered animal. A rueful smile twisted his mouth as he shook his head, shook out the gold-tipped fronds of his hair: a lion’s mane, the blunt ends like spun gold around the rugged angles of his face. ‘Nay, nay, I will not hurt you.’
Brianna eyed him blankly, disbelieving, driving the flats of her hands and feet into the hard mud to hitch away from him. Where was her knife? She had to protect herself! As she raised herself up from the ground, every muscle in her body aching, protesting, the voluminous gown that she wore pressed against her body, revealing her high, rounded bosom, the golden-red weave of her hair falling like spun net across her chest. She managed to make a small space between them, heart racing beneath his steely perusal before the heel of her boot snared in the trailing hem of her gown, preventing any further escape.
‘Let me help you up. Can you stand?’ Impatient not to prolong the episode, Giseux stretched out one hand, tanned and sinewy, to help her up.
She slapped at his fingers, catching the side of his palm. The sharp smack reverberated in the confined corner of the field, bouncing between the thorny hedgerows, studded with bright berries. ‘Get away from me! Go! Leave me alone!’ The shrillness of her voice screeched into his ear, scraping at the limits of his patience. ‘You need to go away!’
‘And you need to mind your manners!’ Deep within him, the short rope of his temper began to fray; the girl’s behaviour was ridiculous, unnecessary. It wasn’t the physical blow—that had been nothing, a mere moth’s touch from her slim fingers—but the girl’s complete failure to comprehend that he was not her enemy. His initial intention to offer her comfort, to help her in some way, as any passing stranger would do, had gone seriously awry. He didn’t have the time to squander on such foolish conduct, and at this rate, his act of mercy was threatening to take all day. It would be so much easier to walk away. But he couldn’t leave her here, hunched, pathetic, like a half-drowned kitten that spat and snarled at him whenever he approached. It went against every code he had been brought up to believe.
‘I am not going to leave you here, sitting on the frozen ground. I am not going to hurt you.’
‘How do I know?’ she threw back at him, her body rigid and hostile, cerulean eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘How do I know that this isn’t another trick? The words emerged in jerky fashion, her voice wobbling with the cold. She wrapped her arms firmly about her chest, trying to stop the violent shudders that racked her body.
He set his lips in a firm forbidding line, a ripple of irritation lacing his big frame. ‘I’m not one of them. You have to trust me.’
‘Trust?’ Laughter burst from her lips, a spray of jangled sound couched with a bubble of hysteria. ‘Surely you jest? It’s obvious you are one of Count John’s men, sent to pick up the pieces.’ Brianna wriggled her feet, attempting to move her frozen toes. She needed to find the strength, the determination, to stand up, to walk away. A cloying weakness dragged at her legs; this last attack had surely been the worst. And it appeared that it wasn’t over yet.
Gathering the last scraps of courage from her body, she tipped her head defiantly, meeting his pewter gaze. ‘I’ll not go back with you. I’ll not go back to Merleberge.’
‘I have no intention of making you go anywhere,’ he replied, his tone brimming with contempt. Sunburn dusted his high cheekbones, a reddish-brown colour that spoke of distant lands. His mouth was generous, top lip narrow, well defined, in stark, shocking comparison to the sensual fullness of his bottom lip. Brown hair, gilded, fell forwards in thick strands over his brow, ruffled by the breeze. ‘But it would help if I could take you somewhere, to a place of safety. Sooner, rather than
later.’
He propelled himself up in one sinuous, graceful movement; she instinctively raised her hands, as if to ward off further attack, but to her surprise he ignored her, heading towards his horse. Her heart eased as she watched him, noting that he limped—the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a pause, as his right foot moved forwards. His chainmail, glinting like fish scales, fitted his tall frame like a second skin, revealing the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the powerful strength of his long legs. The fine cloth of his surcoat held a dull sheen in the fragile sunshine, secured to his slim hips with a wide leather sword belt.
‘Here, have this, you’re freezing.’
She cast a cursory glance at the bundle of cloth between his hands: a cloak, of midnight blue, the collar edged in fur.
‘I’ve told you, leave me. I want nothing from you.’ She tried to inject some strength into her voice. Clutching valiantly at the trough with clenched, icy fingers, she pushed her body weight upwards. A raft of dizziness swept through her head as she stood up straight and she swayed, nausea boiling in her stomach. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘For the love of God, go away.’ Her lids, blue-veined and pale, fluttered down, spiky black lashes fanning her cheeks. She wanted to recover from her humiliating ordeal in her own time, at her own pace, without this man, this stranger, witnessing her every move.
He assessed her wilting figure critically, the hint of a mocking smile playing across his lips; a large bear-like hand curled around her shoulder. ‘Mayhap you should stay sitting for a while?’
Brianna wrested her shoulder furiously from his grasp, from the unwanted contact, eyes caged, fiery breath caught in the trap of her throat. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she lashed at him, ‘don’t you dare touch me!’ She turned, stumbling a little over the tussocky grass, spotting the gleam of her knife in the rough vegetation. Her head swam as she crouched to pick it up, to secure the blade once more in its scabbard at her waist. Then, without a backward glance, the blurry horizon line teetering before her, she took one step tentatively back towards the farm. Somehow, the thought of returning to her own cold, empty home failed to fill her with confidence.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ The stranger’s voice boomed out over her, a snare of exasperation.
Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away. Brianna focused on the gateway, forcing her wooden, unwilling legs to move forwards, aware that her gait was unbalanced, wobbling even. If she could just stretch her fingers out to reach the gatepost …
A hand grasped her upraised forearm, strong tapered fingers snaring the point where the wide cuff of her rough sleeve had fallen back, exposing the limpid marble of her skin. Beneath the loose hold of his fingers, her pulse scurried along, too fast. Legs buckling, Brianna staggered against the oak gatepost, the wood split and grey, speckled with a frothing mat of sage-green lichen.
He was at her back, the rounded bulk of his shoulder curving into hers, the heat from his body burning her spine. The silken strands of her hair stirred with his breath … no, too close! Vexed, she squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away the hot threat of tears at his continued, unwanted presence.
‘I swear you are the rudest, most ungrateful chit I have ever met.’ His voice curled into her, hardened by iron-clad threads of irritation. ‘Now, tell me where you live and I will take you there.’ From his lofty vantage point, he traced the elegant arch of her dark copper brow, the creamy curve of her cheek. Her skin was fine, polished: the rich, sleek lustre of a pearl. Up close, the purpling bruise on her jawline looked savage; it must hurt like hell, he thought, suddenly.
‘Nay,’ she responded quickly. Her frozen skin tingled beneath the pads of his fingers. She tried to jerk away, to take one more tottering step, but he held firm. ‘I don’t want your help.’
‘Oh, but I think you do,’ Giseux responded calmly. He hadn’t realised how small she was; if he leaned forward a notch, the top of her head would brush his chin. ‘You can scarce take a step without nearly falling down. However near your home might be, it would take you all day to reach it.’
‘But I would reach it … eventually,’ Brianna threw back, tilting her chin up with determination, ‘without your help.’ A rising anxiety fluttered in her chest at his proximity, clawing at her innards. He was like a solid, immovable wall, glittering, formidable. His hand fell from her arm and she clung to the post for support. She bit her lip, humiliated, furious at her own pathetic weakness, beset with a flooding sense of her own vulnerability.
Giseux sighed, folding his arms high across his chest. ‘I don’t understand you. For all you know, those men could be waiting for you in the next field over. Are you really that stupid?’
Lips set in a mutinous line, Brianna glared dully at the horizon, defeat clogging her heart. The man gave her no choice; she suspected he would dog her steps until he saw her to a place of safety. Then, and only then, would she be rid of him.
‘I live over there.’ She gestured vaguely towards the low roofs of the farm on the horizon, not trusting him with the truth. ‘It’s not far.’
‘Then let’s go.’ Giseux gathered up his shield from the spot where she had fallen, slinging the glossy black armour across his body, securing his helmet and cloak to the rump of his horse, before catching up the reins.
A shout from the field beyond forced Brianna to lift her head. Spotting the round, familiar figure of the farmer trotting alongside the hedge, hefting a heavy iron mace between his thick hands, she almost collapsed with relief. The sides of William’s leather jerkin flapped out from his hips as he jogged along, his normally jovial face red with exertion, his eyes wide with concern.
‘William!’ she called over to him. ‘Over here!’ Whirling around, she noted that the knight tracked the farmer’s advance with interest. ‘No need to escort me now.’ She expelled her pent-up breath in a long gasp, her relief evident in the sag of her body, the brightness of her features. ‘William can take me home.’
Granite eyes narrowed. ‘You know this man?’
She nodded. ‘He’s my father.’ The lie tripped easily from her tongue; she felt the need for some protection, however fictitious.
‘He needs to keep a closer eye on you.’ Swinging up into the saddle, a surprisingly lithe, efficient movement for such a big man, the stranger pulled up the reins, his stance relaxed, easy as the horse sidled beneath him.
‘Tell me, do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’
Breath punched from her lungs at the astonishing question, toes curling in her boots as she glared blankly at the broad expanse of blue sky, patched by fluffy white clouds coasting along in the breeze. She edged her gaze around, unsure whether she had heard him correctly. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’ he repeated, slowly, witheringly, as if she were a halfwit.
Brianna’s mouth set in an open jeer. ‘You had better ask your friend, Count John. I’ve never heard of her.’ Moving towards William, she sucked in her breath at the painful stiffness developing in her body, keeping her frame rigid, stalking off in the opposite direction to Sefanoc, back to the farm. She didn’t look back.
‘Oh, mother of God, child, what in Heaven’s name happened to you?’ Alys emerged from the kitchen area that led off the entrance hall, wiping her hands on a linen cloth, as Brianna burst through the main door, shutting it firmly behind her, leaning her back against the solid oak panels, as if in confirmation of her actions.
‘They were waiting for me, Alys, Count John’s men! On the way back from the farm.’ The explanation emerged in a rush; reaching up, rising on the balls of her feet, she shot the top bolt into its hasp, then repeated the action with the middle and bottom bolts.
‘There.’ She turned triumphantly to Alys. ‘That should keep them out.’ And him, if he ever found her, she added silently. Loosening the leather laces that closed the slash neck of her cape, she pulled it off, over her head. Her shimmering plaits, half-unravelled, swung down to her waist, the top of her head still damp from her dunking.
The linen towel dropped to the stone floor, drifting noiselessly to the flagstones. ‘Your face, Brianna.’ Alys raised her palms to her own cheeks. ‘Your face.’ She moved forwards in the gloom of the entrance hall, backlit by the torchlight flaming from the kitchen, her arms outstretched in horror.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’ Her jaw throbbed persistently with a bruised heat as Brianna hung her cape on a wooden peg near the door. A slick of fear coated her veins. What would have happened today, if that man, that stranger in black and silver, hadn’t come along? Did those men have orders from Count John to finish her off, to remove her, believing Hugh would never return? With no other living relative, with no one to ask questions as to her whereabouts, Count John would be able to grab the rich pastures of Sefanoc for his own.
‘Sit down, let me put something on it. Come, I’ve lit the fire in the hall.’ Alys pushed aside the small door set in the wooden panelling that screened the great hall from the front entrance.
‘Nay, there’s no time. I must fetch my bow and check the windows are secure in the solar.’
‘Are they coming after you?’ Alys questioned, a note of rising panic in her voice.
‘They might …’ Brianna paused, as a pair of silver eyes shone in her memory ‘… and possibly with reinforcements.’ Had she misjudged the man who had tried to help her? With her mind befuddled from the attack, she had been so convinced he was an ally of Count John, sent to try a different tack to convince her to marry. And yet … he had asked for her by name. Her face warmed at the memory of his protective bulk at her side; she placed flat palms to her cheeks, seeking to cool the twin flags of heat.
‘Oh, God save us.’ Alys clutched at her chest. ‘I wish the Lord Hugh had returned, or … or that we had a man about the house to defend us.’
‘We can defend ourselves, Alys!’ Brianna’s eyes flashed determination. ‘I will not let these men bully us … bully me.’ She yanked open the door into the great hall, heading for the solar at the opposite end of the house, and her bedchamber. She sighed; how tempting it would be to curl up beneath the bed furs at this very moment and sleep, sleep a deep dreamless sleep. But she strode on, her lips set in a tight line; she had to make certain the manor house was secure.
Alys touched her arm, halting her stride. ‘Brianna … my lady … you can’t keep going on like this … It’s too hard for you to do alone.’
‘I prefer to be alone, Alys, you know that.’
Brianna dropped her eyes, a silky curl of burnished hair looping over her cheek. Why did Alys constantly allude to her solitary life, her single status? Surely she, of all people, knew that Brianna could never be with a man, never trust a man, ever again? She drew in a deep breath, willing the faint tightness of panic in her chest to leave, to dissolve. This attack had frightened her, reminding her of that past she craved to forget. Clasping her hands together, she turned around, pulling her features into an expression, she hoped, of supreme confidence. ‘Alys, if there’s one good thing that came out of that ill-fated marriage, it was the ability to defend myself!’ She picked her skirts up to continue striding in the direction of the solar.
Alys nodded dubiously, her face stricken. Brianna never talked about her short marriage to Walter of Brinslow; all she knew was that the kind, happy girl who had left Sefanoc to wed had returned just six months later as a broken woman. Five winters on and Brianna had sprung back to her old self, although the scars of whatever that man had done to her still lingered, in the shadows behind her eyes, in certain mannerisms. It was why she had insisted that Hugh, before he left on the crusade, had taught her how to defend herself. Her gaze touched on Brianna, now hefting her unwieldy crossbow from the solar, her brows drawn together in concentration, trying to remember how to use the weapon. Both women deluded themselves, both knew that Hugh’s tuition was not enough. It could never be enough against Count John’s men.
The fine silver arc of a new moon hung low in the sky as Giseux approached Sefanoc. At least he hoped it was Sefanoc. The directions from the local people in the nearby town of Merleberge had been hazy, reluctant to divulge too much information to a stranger. It was only when he told them the purpose of his visit that they opened up, nodding and smiling at Lady Brianna’s name. It seemed that Hugh of Sefanoc’s sister was something of a heroine in these parts.
Over to his right, amidst the rustlings and twitterings of a forest, a vixen shrieked. Trees threw jerky angles up against the reddish streaks of the western sky, daylight fading rapidly. Under the trees, the light grew so dim that he dismounted, leading his horse along the barely visible track. As the cold mud seeped through the chainmail covering his feet, he regretted the haste with which he’d travelled to Merleberge. He hadn’t given himself time to change into civilian clothes; his full armour was designed for riding, not for walking any great distance. The smell of smoke mingled with the chill evening air, the fresh scent of burning apple wood wafting over him; he could see lights in the windows up ahead, an encouraging sign, flooding down to reveal the stone steps leading up to the wide front door on the first floor.
Something whistled past his ear, barely an inch away from the steel helmet protecting his head. In an instant he had drawn his sword and ducked behind a tree, all his instincts poised, alert. Near to the spot where he had been walking, a crossbow bolt, quiver still vibrating with the force of the shot, stuck into the mud where his feet had been.
A woman’s voice shouted down from the manor, across the darkness, ‘Go away!’ The clear, bell-like voice was delivered in an imperious high-handed tone.
Grimacing, he rested his back against the tree, stretching out the muscles in his long legs, easing out the tight spot on his upper thigh. He hadn’t anticipated any antagonism and, after the shenanigans with that peasant woman today, this hostile behaviour was unexpected and annoying. Pulling up the visor of his helmet, he inched his head round the ridged trunk to project his response towards the house. ‘My name is Giseux de St-Loup. I was told that Lady Brianna lives here. I need to see her, about her brother, Hugh.’ His powerful voice reverberated around the stillness of the forest, echoed up into the trees. Through the branches above his head, against the velvet nap of the sky, the evening star glowed, a diamond pinprick.
Silence.
Irritation rose in his gullet—what in the devil’s name was happening now? Sneaking another look round, he could see the silhouette of a woman at the upper window; to his surprise, he realised it was she that held the crossbow. He smiled to himself. She wouldn’t be so lucky with her shot the next time; ladies were not known for their prowess with weapons. Leaving his horse by the tree, he moved out into the open ground, covering the space between the manor and the forest with long-legged strides.
Another bolt flew through the air, thudded next to him, surprisingly close.
‘I told you to go away.’ The modulated tones assailed him from the window, cutting briskly through the night air.
Caught halfway in the open grassy area between the edge of the trees and the house, Giseux tilted his head towards the window. All he could see was the woman’s dark outline and the glint of metal from the crossbow cradled in her arms. ‘And I told you,’ he delivered the words slowly, patiently, ‘that I have come about Hugh of Sefanoc. He is very ill and needs to see his sister. So I suggest you stop playing games and let me in. You’re wasting precious time with this nonsense.’
At his back, an owl hooted, eerie, piercing.
‘I don’t believe you. It’s another trick.’
‘I have no idea to what you are referring.’ Giseux narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the lady’s face. ‘Hugh said you’d be like this; he said you’d ask for proof.’
‘Do you have any?’
Gisuex cleared his throat. ‘He said, “Remember Big Belly Oak”.’
He heard a gasp and what sounded like a rising sob. The figure retreated from the window, crying out an urgent command, before the iron bolts on the main door were drawn back. By the time the last one grated from its metal hasp, Giseux had sprinted to the top of the steps, was waiting when the door nudged slowly inwards.
‘Take me to Lady Brianna,’ he rapped out at the maidservant behind the door, giving her no more than a cursory glance. Yanking off his helmet, he pushed back his chainmail hood and shoved the unwieldy metal headgear into the servant’s hands. His shield slid to the floor in the process. ‘Here, take this.’
His gaze snagged.
He looked again, closer, scrutinising the pale oval face in the dimness of the entrance hall. Bright hair in plaits, translucent blue eyes, shoddy woollen dress. ‘You! It’s you!’ Big hands reached out, tapered fingers snaring her shoulders. ‘You little wretch! Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Lady Brianna? You’ve done her no favours by protecting her!’ In the corner of the entrance hall, another, older servant trembled, twisting her hands nervously, ineffectually, lined face taut with fright.
‘I don’t work for Lady Brianna …’ the girl replied softly. Her small hands clutched around his helmet, as if in support. The bruise at her jaw seemed to have spread, darkening to a frightening array of reddish-purple blotches.
‘You could have saved me a whole day of pointless riding about!’ he blazed at her. ‘Do you realise how much time I’ve wasted? Hugh, your lord, could be dead by now.’ The harsh words felt good on his tongue; he said them deliberately to frighten her, to make her pay for his whole tiresome, wasted day.
A deathly white washed her face. He wondered whether she might faint, the hold he maintained on her shoulders changing to one of support. ‘Tell me where he is,’ she whispered, raising her beautiful blue eyes to his. ‘I am Hugh’s sister. I am Brianna of Sefanoc.’
His wolfish look plundered her, dark brows drawing into a frown, eyes hardening to chips of granite. ‘You … are … Brianna?’ he pronounced slowly, incredulous, drawing his gaze at a leisurely pace from the top of her flame-coloured hair, over the tented and patched sack of her gown, to the tips of her toes. Her face grew hot beneath the deliberateness of his examination; she twisted away, all but throwing his helmet on to an oak bench in the entrance hall.
‘I realise I’m not quite as you would expect,’ Brianna explained briskly. In the confined space of the entrance hall, a restless energy rolled from him in waves, vital, pulsating, resonating through her body, making her shiver. The diamond chips of his eyes glittered in the sepulchral gloom.
‘You can say that again,’ he murmured. The luminous quality of her skin gleamed from the shadows. His fingers tingled, itched to touch, to test the alluring softness, and he frowned.
‘I had to help out with the milking this morning, hence the clothes.’
‘Help with the milking? Surely you have servants to do such work?’ Giseux threw a penetrating glance over at Alys, who quailed visibly into the corner.
Brianna shook her head faintly, dismissing the subject; she had no wish to discuss her domestic arrangements with a complete stranger. She reached out her hand to touch Giseux’s arm, then obviously thought better of it, withdrawing her hand quickly. ‘Tell me about Hugh, please. I have spent so many days waiting, wondering. I can’t believe he’s still alive.’
Giseux sincerely hoped that he was. The loose sleeve of her gown had slipped back when she reached up as if to touch him; the skin of her wrist was limpid, fragile as parchment, covered with a network of blue veins; her fingernails were pale pink, delicate shells, against the raw skin of her work-roughened fingers. He swallowed, a sudden dryness catching his throat.
‘Are you going to let me in?’ He glanced archly at the sheathed knife in her belt. ‘Or am I still considered a danger?’
He saw her take a deep, shuddering breath, saw the sheer exhaustion in her eyes. The tip of her tongue licked nervously at the rose-bud fullness of her bottom
lip.
‘Am I a danger?’ he repeated. The low, husky tones enveloped her. An odd, teetering sensation spiralled in her belly, coiling slowly, blossoming.
‘No,’ she croaked. Indecision swamped her. She knew he had been sent by Hugh; how else would he have known of the ‘Big Belly Oak’ of their childhood, their secret hiding place? She looped her arms defensively across her stomach. There was something else about this man that caused every last nerve ending in her body to dance with … Was it fear? She couldn’t be certain, at a loss to identify the feeling.
‘Follow me.’ Her lips compressed as she grasped the spitting torch proffered by Alys, holding the guttering flame aloft, showing the way.
He followed the rigid line of Brianna’s back into the great hall, enjoying the tempting sway of her hips as they brushed against the inside of her gown. Who would have thought that she could be Hugh’s sister, dressed in those torn, work-stained garments, her rippling coppery hair, like beech leaves in autumn, falling down past her waist in simple braids? Hugh of Sefanoc never wasted the slightest opportunity to boast about the substantial income he gained from his estates, from the farming as well as the forest. So why was his sister dressed in rags, working her fingers to the bone, courting the violent attentions of Count John’s men?
Slinging the torch into an iron ring alongside the imposing stone fireplace, Brianna gestured abruptly to a high-backed armchair. Giseux folded his large frame gratefully into the hard wooden seat; after a day in the saddle it felt good, despite the inflexibility of his armour. He glanced at the fire, a pathetic business made up of a few damp sticks, spitting and smouldering in the enormous grate. The tiny heat thrown out by the feeble flames made little impact on the cavernous space; against the skin of his face, Giseux could feel the penetrating cold radiating out from the grey-stone walls. Up above him, the high ceiling was constructed of thick oak trusses, huge arches that spanned the length of the hall. The high windows had been shuttered against the winter weather, although he doubted it made much difference to the inside temperature.
‘Tell me! Tell me how Hugh is, please!’ Brianna rested one hand on the stone mantel to steady herself. She wanted to lay her head against the carved stone and weep tears of sheer gratitude, but she would be damned if she showed any further weakness before this dark stranger. Why, oh, why did it have to be him to bring the news? The man who had witnessed her humiliation by Count John’s men, who had moved too close in his efforts to help her; even now, she could feel the burning imprint of his fingers from this morning. Her heart skittered.
Giseux sprawled back in the chair, stretching out his legs, his toes almost touching Brianna’s hem. The dancing flames from the torchlight turned the brilliant colour of her hair to burnished gold. A wry smile crooked his lips as she twitched her skirts away from his encroaching feet, her nose crinkling a little in distaste at his nearness.
‘Hugh is at my parents’ castle, near Winchester,’ Giseux explained. ‘His sickness began as we waited for the ships to bring us back to England. He is very ill, sometimes delirious with fever, but always, always, asking for you.’
Brianna placed her palms flat over her face, physically trying to stop the tears from running down, emotion clawing in her belly. If only she’d known this morning, she would be with Hugh by now. ‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’ she blurted out, her voice holding the sting of accusation, ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were this morning, why you were here?’ She flung herself into the chair opposite him, perching on the edge, scuffed leather boots poking out from beneath her sagging hemline.
‘If I remember rightly, it was you who denied all knowledge of Brianna of Sefanoc,’ he replied scornfully. ‘If you hadn’t, we would be with him now.’
‘Then let’s go!’ She sprang out of the seat, headed towards the solar. ‘All I need is my cloak.’
Giseux’s deep voice halted her nimble stride. ‘Lady, if you think I’m travelling anywhere tonight, then think again. I need food and I need some sleep before I climb into that saddle once more.’
‘But Hugh …?’
‘… is in safe hands,’ he finished the sentence for her. He was reluctant to point out that if Hugh were dead now, then one night would make no difference. ‘We’ll ride on the morrow, in daylight. It’ll be safer and we’ll be able to see our way, which will make the journey quicker.’
Brianna frowned, spinning back on the ball of one foot to face him, bridling beneath his authoritative manner, his swift decision-making. ‘That may be so, my lord, but I wish to see my brother now.’ Who did he think he was, to give her orders so? She was used to making up her own mind, forging her own decisions; after her marriage to Walter, she had promised herself that, at least. ‘I thank you, my lord, for bringing the message about my brother; you are welcome to some food and to spend the night here.’ Her tone was formal, dismissive. ‘I will fetch you something to eat right now.’
‘Hold.’ As she passed his chair, he snagged her hand in one large chainmail glove. The creased leather on the underside pressed into her palm.
‘Let me go.’ Brianna made an effort to deliver the words calmly, waiting for the familiar crawl of fear in her chest, bracing her body against the inevitable sickening panic she experienced when any man came too close. Her pulse skipped, her heart rate accelerating, but not in any way she remembered. She frowned; something was not right.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. His voice had a lilting, liquid quality.
‘I told you, to fetch some food.’ She tugged at her hand; his strong fingers tightened. Annoyed, she pressed her lips together, staring steadfastly away from his penetrating gaze.
‘You feed me lies, my lady, I can see it in your face,’ his silky tones accused her. ‘You’re planning to go to him, aren’t you? Whether I agree to accompany you or
not.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It is my business to deliver you safely. Do you think Hugh would ever forgive me if some harm came to you on the journey? He asked me to escort you and escort you I will.’ He dropped her hand.
‘Then go with me now.’ She cradled her released fingers, missing the warmth of his touch. What was the matter with her?
‘It’s not possible,’ Giseux replied firmly, steel threading his voice. Since when had women become so outspoken? He could travel if he wanted to; he could ride for days on an empty stomach with little sleep, but something in her manner made him want to resist, to squash her a little.
‘All right, we’ll leave tomorrow,’ she replied huffily, flouncing off to the kitchen. Leaning back in the chair, Giseux smiled. He suspected that he would have a battle on his hands, a battle that he would inevitably win. Oddly, he relished the thought.
Chapter Three
‘Oh, my lady, what in Heaven’s name are we going to feed him?’ Alys knotted her fingers together endlessly, running helpless eyes along the wide empty shelves lining the kitchen.
‘Nothing, if I had my way.’ Brianna braced her hands flat against the well-scrubbed planks of the kitchen table, trying to assemble her angry, scattered thoughts. Her eyes snapped over to Alys, fiery blue. ‘The man’s a complete oaf! Did you hear what he said to me? Hugh’s alive and he refuses to take me to him! He wants to wait … wait until tomorrow morning. Can you believe it?’
Alys hurried over to her, plucked at Brianna’s sleeve. ‘Keep your voice down, he’ll hear you!’ The thin skin of her face stretched over high cheekbones, mottled pink. She darted a nervous glance towards the open kitchen door.
‘What do I care?’ Brianna pushed her body upright, whipping around to face the door, wanting Giseux to burst through, wanting to challenge him. ‘He knows what I think.’
‘My lady, calm down,’ Alys pleaded, patting feebly at Brianna’s arm. ‘Come, let’s fetch him some food—what about the stew?’
Alys’s question forced her mind to concentrate. She considered the stew that she and her maidservant had been eking out for the last week: tough chicken legs occasionally enlivened with a few chewy winter greens. ‘Nay, too good for him,’ she pronounced, instead extracting a dry heel of bread from an earthenware pot, plonking it on a pewter plate. ‘There, that should
do.’
‘He’s a lord, Brianna,’ Alys whispered, ‘a nobleman. We can’t feed him on stale bread.’
‘I suppose he could have some cheese,’ Brianna conceded, grudgingly. She unwrapped a long piece of damp muslin from a round of soft cheese, fresh and crumbly.
‘And some mead.’ Alys dipped a pewter tankard into an iron-girded cask of the amber liquid, setting it down on the tray next to the plate.
‘Shall I take it?’ the maidservant offered reluctantly.
Brianna smiled. ‘Nay, let me. And he’d better appreciate it.’
Alys raised her eyes to Heaven.
Shouldering her way awkwardly back through the door to the great hall, carrying the tray, Brianna decided her main aim was to encourage Giseux, after he had eaten, to retire for the night. Alys had already prepared the guest chamber, accessed by a spiral flight of stairs from the entrance hall. Once he was asleep, it would leave the way clear for her to saddle up her horse and ride to Winchester.
Giseux’s legs gleamed in their metallic skin, his bulging calf muscles clearly visible beneath the chainmail as Brianna advanced towards the chair. He’d removed his chainmail gloves and they lay on the floor. She crashed the tray down ungratefully on the rickety, three-legged table at his elbow. ‘Here you are, my lord.’ Her bravado quailed as his eyes, midnight-fringed, devoured her with a single sweep.
‘What did those men want with you this morning?’ he demanded, ignoring the pewter plate at his side.
‘I … er …’ She hesitated, sweeping over to the shutters, checking the latches were secure, away from his heated perusal.
‘What did they want with you?’ Her spine shivered beneath the low rumble of his voice.
The metal hasp of the shutters felt cool beneath her fingers; she yearned to press her flaming face against the solid wood, to regain some solidity, some stability in her current situation.
‘Count John’s men?’ Brianna tried to keep her voice light, even. She couldn’t allow this man to know how much their beating had affected her. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she moved back to the fireside, perched tentatively in the seat opposite Giseux.
He bit into a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, silent.
Brianna shifted uncomfortably, stared at the floor, knowing he was waiting for an answer. ‘Count John wants me to marry one of his noblemen, so that Sefanoc comes within his jurisdiction. He sent his soldiers to persuade me.’
‘Their methods of persuasion leave a lot to be desired,’ he murmured, taking a swig of mead, running the tip of his tongue along the generous curve of his bottom lip to catch a wayward drip.
Brianna touched one finger to her throbbing jaw. ‘That’s why bringing Hugh home to Sefanoc is so important,’ she offered, tentatively. ‘When Count John sees he’s alive, well, then they’ll stop tormenting me.’
‘Then it’s fortunate he is home.’ Giseux steepled his fingers in front of his chest. ‘Otherwise you might have ended up in a marriage against your will.’
Her expression was bleak. ‘It would never happen; I told you before, I would rather die than have that happen again.’
His eyes flicked up at her final word; she clapped her hands to her mouth, startled, dismayed at her stupid mistake. Again. The word that gave away her past.
‘Again?’ Giseux queried, adjusting his position to lean forwards, elbows resting on his knees.
She sprang from her seat, mouth trembling, flustered, sweat clagging her palms. ‘You need to finish your meal,’ she announced briskly, ‘and I must change out of these clothes. Please excuse me.’
So that was it, Giseux mused idly, as he watched the flick of her skirt, the shining coin of her hair disappear through a door at the end of the great hall. She had been married before, and not happily, judging from her reaction to his question. Where was her husband now? Had she finished him off with her crossbow, with a swipe from the knife at her belt? His lips twitched at the thought—she was perfectly capable. In fact, he doubted he had met another woman who fought with such drive, such ferocity, to hold on to the things she held most dear. It appeared she was paying a high price.
Seizing the mud-encrusted hem of her loose peasant gown, Brianna struggled with the coarse material to pull it over her head. Why, why on earth had she said such a stupid thing? And to him, of all people: a complete stranger! Blood bolted through her veins, rattling her; she forced herself to breathe more slowly, to calm down. The sooner she was away from him, the better. Leaving her chemise and woollen stockings on, and still wearing her stout leather boots, Brianna moved to the oak coffer at the foot of the bed. The carved lid opened with a protesting creak as she riffled inside. She only had two suitable gowns and one, she knew, had a long rip along a seam that she had been meaning to repair. The green wool gown was presentable, if a little threadbare. She settled the material over her head, smelling the dried lavender that Alys placed in the oak coffers every year to keep the clothes sweet. As the folds fell down about her shoulders, the wool prickled a little against her linen chemise, damp from her earlier dunking.
Pushing her head through the round slash neck, her fingers brushed against the silver embroidery that decorated the collar, the design raised, intricate. Her mother had done this, her beautiful mother who had spent many hours working her fine needlework on all the family’s clothes. Brianna could see her now, sitting by the south window in the solar, the bright sunlight picking up the shining thread on her lap, the gold filaments in her burnished hair. Her breath emerged in a long, stuttering sigh. How she wished her parents could be here now, instead of succumbing to that horrendous, debilitating illness. They would be proud of her, she hoped, proud of the way she had kept the estate going in Hugh’s absence, proud of the way she had scrimped and saved, so that there was something of worth, something of value for him to come home to. How could that man be so insensitive as to keep her from her brother, when she had waited for so long for him to return?
She smoothed the skirts of the gown down over her thighs, shaking out the creases and bringing in the waist with a woven girdle that settled over her slim hips. The woodenness of her fingers vexed her as she fumbled with the intricate ties of the belt. She placed her knife-belt and cloak across the bed, not wanting to alert Giseux’s suspicions if she carried them out to the great hall now. Soon enough she and Alys would have him settled in the guest chamber and she would be able to slip away. Knotting her long braids together to form a loose bun, she jabbed the vibrant mass with several long hairpins in an effort to secure it, before covering her head with a gauzy veil. This she jammed into place with a golden circlet, the only one she hadn’t sold, the metal cold and tight against her forehead.
She padded on silent feet towards the door, the hem of her gown a muffled whisper against the wide elm floorboards. Clicking the latch open, Brianna drew her spine up, preparing to face her rescuer once more.
Giseux’s substantial frame spread out from the chair, his whole body polished in the light of the feeble fire. One arm hung out over the armrest, strong, tapered fingers suspended in mid-air.
He was asleep.
A curious flickering curled around her stomach, subtle, delicious, as she studied the man. For the first time she noticed the grey shadows beneath his eyes, hollows of smudged ash, crinkled lines fanning out from the corners. A hot, heavy sensation speared her feet to the floor; it was as if she were mesmerised. He looked uncomfortable, his big frame wedged into the narrow corner of the chair, and, with a rush of realisation, Brianna knew she should have offered him some of her brother’s clothes. Hugh could never wait to dispense with his armour once he arrived home, always complaining how intolerable it was.
His chest rose and fell steadily, slowly, evidence of a deep sleep, the wool of his surcoat flattening taut over his chest and stomach, revealing the solid indentations of his muscles. He had loosened the leather laces that held together the slash neck of his hauberk; as the chainmail edges gaped, they revealed the strong, corded muscles of his neck, the tanned hollow of his throat. Brianna bit her lip; the temptation to touch, to test the honed perfection of his skin, was overwhelming. Her fingers burned with awareness.
She twisted her hands together, agitated, trying to dispel the tantalising craving, annoyed by her strange reaction to him. Was she in her right mind? Had the attack today left her so befuddled that she had forgotten her lonely path in life? Remember Walter, she told herself sternly, remember Walter controlling her to the point where she had wanted to scream in frustration, trapped in that bitter, loveless marriage. It had become his main amusement, deciding what she ate, what she wore, what she did all day, so that at some point in that hideous time, she truly believed she was losing the ability to think for herself. And she was not about to let that happen again.
Whisking back to her chamber, Brianna snatched up her cloak and knife-belt from the bed. Her mind rattled with details; she had to seize her chance to travel to Winchester now, whilst Giseux slept. As she tiptoed past him, a sudden nausea roiled in her belly at her daring and she trembled with the horrible notion of him leaping up suddenly, catching her red-handed. He could not, must not, catch her. She kept her gaze pinned to the door at the far end of the great hall, taking deliberate, considered steps, picking up her hem so she didn’t trip. Every muscle in her body strained, held taut in the moment, alert to the slightest movement, the slightest sound from the chair. After what seemed like an eternity, her hand lifted the latch and she slipped into the entrance hall like a ghost, closing the door behind her. Her suppressed breath released; she sagged against the wall in relief.
Alys emerged from the stair that led to the guest chamber above the kitchens, eyes wide in her pale, wizened face. ‘My lady? What’s happening?’ she whispered, frowning at Brianna’s change of clothes, her cloak.
‘Shh.’ Brianna put a finger to her lips, seizing the maidservant by the hand and pulling her through the main entrance door, out, out into the frosty air, down the steps, down to the vaulted stables below the first floor. The smell of crushed straw, of faint, stale horse filled the air.
‘Oh, mistress, nay, you cannot!’ In the white slant of moonlight that poured through the archway into the stables, Alys brought her gnarled, arthritic hands to sunken cheeks when Brianna told her of her plans.
‘It’s the only way,’ Brianna announced briskly, heart knocking against her chest, the image of the big man sprawled upstairs, asleep, tripping dangerously around the edges of her consciousness.
‘At least let me come with you, mistress.’
In the startling brightness of the moon, Alys suddenly looked old, her gaunt frame bent over with exhaustion. Guilt surged through Brianna and she placed two hands on Alys’s shoulders. ‘Nay, Alys, I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve put up with so much from me, you need to rest now. Go to bed, sleep. Lord Giseux can take care of himself.’
‘But …?’
‘Winchester is not above twenty miles from here … I know the way.’ Well, most of it, Brianna added silently.
‘But how will you travel?’ Alys’s gaze swept the empty stable. ‘We have no horses left to ride.’
Brianna grinned, the metal bosses on her cloak glinting in the dim light. ‘Aye, we don’t,’ she pointed out towards to fringes of the forest, where Giseux’s large destrier was patiently cropping the grass, the reins conveniently looped around a low branch, ‘but he does.’
It was the cold that finally woke him, digging into his bones like icy fingers, relentlessly, endlessly, so at last after a great deal of tossing and turning and trying to will his exhausted body back to sleep, Giseux reluctantly opened his eyes. The barest trickle of moonlight squeezed through the gaps in the long wooden shutters, enough to see by. The fire had burnt out, but not long ago, ashes smouldering dismally in the grate.
The chair cradled his body at a stiff, unyielding angle, compressing his bones. His right hand had gone numb; he gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers as the blood returned with a painful prickling. Shaking off the shrouds of sleep, his mind jumped into action, remembering, remembering the task that Hugh had set him. He recalled the spark of determination in Lady Brianna’s eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth when he had informed her that they would not leave until morning.
Propelling himself from the chair, he strode over to the door of the solar, wrenching the door open. In normal circumstances, he probably would have knocked, but up to this point everything about Lady Brianna had been anything but normal. He knew, he just knew, before he’d even looked at the bed and saw that the furs lay flat, unused, that she had gone. Little witch! He had offered to come to Sefanoc as a favour to Hugh; in reality it was turning out to be an ordeal.
Stepping over to the bed, he hauled the covers back; the spotless, empty white sheet shone back at him, the slight indentation in the mattress where she would have slept mocking him. The scent of crushed lavender rose from the bedlinens, delicious, seductive, reminding him of those long, hot summers in Poitiers, and his heart jerked in memory. That all seemed so long ago now.
A small sound on the other side of the bed caught his attention.
‘She’s not here, my lord.’ Alys sat up on low pallet bed, clutching the covers to her bony chest. Her frizzled hair stuck out from her head like grey lace. Her veins traced blue ridges on the backs of her hands.
‘I can see that,’ Giseux replied bluntly, his cheeks sculptured hollows in the sepulchral light. ‘And against my better judgement I’m about to go after her.’
Big fat tears welled up in the maidservant’s eyes. ‘Oh, my lord, don’t be too harsh on her.’
‘Why on earth not?’ he growled back. ‘The woman’s a prize fool, putting herself at risk.’
‘She hasn’t seen Hugh for such a long time. Once she has a plan in her head …’ Alys trailed off miserably, her voice rising on a half-sob.
‘She’s difficult to rein in, I can see that,’ Giseux replied, grimacing. ‘When did she leave?’
‘Not long after you fell asleep, my lord.’
‘She hasn’t had much of a head start.’ He thought of the dying embers in the fireplace, calculating rapidly. ‘What does she ride … a palfrey? She wouldn’t go above a trot on one of those. I’ll easily catch her up.’
The maidservant was silent, staring at him like a ghost, her knotted fingers still clutching the coverlet against her. ‘She … she took your horse, my lord.’
Through the dark tracery of bare branches, the moon appeared sporadically, shifting behind veils of cloud, dribbling a faint light down to the forest floor. A rising breeze sifted through the trees, a sibilant sound that spoke of the old stories surrounding the forest of Sefanoc, the drifting ghosts. The woods held little mystery for Brianna; she had grown up in this place, had laughed and played through the woodland with Hugh. She felt no fear as the giant skeletal shapes of the trees rose up before her, no fear as she glimpsed the deep pools silvered by the light of the moon and heard the twitterings and rustlings of the animals in the undergrowth. Nay, the forest did not scare her. But being caught by Lord Giseux de St-Loup did.
In despair, she kicked the rounded flanks of the horse beneath her once more. In her haste to leave for Winchester, she had failed to adjust the stirrups to the length of her leg and now they bumped uselessly against the horse’s sides, polished metal hoops shining in the darkness. Even without the use of the stirrups, she considered herself to be an excellent horsewoman, but this animal simply refused to move at anything greater than a sporadic, half-hearted trot! Really, it was as if his master was controlling him from afar!
All of a sudden, the animal stopped, pointed ears moving round as if to locate a sound. And then she heard it—a shout on the wind. She failed to decipher the words, but she knew, knew it was him. Knuckles rounding tautly on the reins, her heart lodged in her throat—how had he managed to catch up with her so quickly? The horse begun to turn in response to his master’s voice, Brianna yanking desperately on the reins to point his head back in the right direction, but to no avail. The horse turned abruptly in the narrow, muddy track, almost throwing her off in its excitement. In the last moment before the horse took off, Brianna managed to throw her leg over the horse’s neck and slip in a flurry of skirts to the ground.
Head held high, she stalked forwards, marching purposefully, swiftly, along the lane towards Winchester, wrapping her woollen cloak firmly around her. She could have run to hide in the darkness of the forest, but what would that achieve? He would surely find her—his face held a lean, hunting expression, that of a predator. Moments later, the sound of galloping hooves thumped up behind her. Her heart plummeted, trickles of fear stinging her blood.
‘Lady Brianna!’ Giseux bellowed. The words rained down on her back as if they were physical blows and she hunched over, chest thudding painfully. Don’t cower like a guilty thief, she told herself. Face him! Dragging herself up to her full height, spine straight and rigid, she spun around, the toe of her sturdy leather boot sinking into soft rotting leaves beneath her foot.
Giseux wore no helmet; his hair stuck up in rough spikes. His eyes, sparking anger, glimmered down over her. Despite her determined demeanour, she hoped that a great crevasse would open up beneath him and swallow him up.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ The roughness of his tone cut into her. His face glimmered with a sheen of sweat: he must have run to catch up with her before his horse turned back.
‘You know what I am doing.’ Not wanting to meet his eyes, to admit that she had defied his orders, Brianna stared mutinously at his mail-covered foot, stuck in the stirrup on a level with her chest, the gleaming armour dulled with spots of mud.
‘I told you to wait until morning, then I would have escorted you.’ His voice was low, level, but she detected a steely thread of exasperation winding through. The strengthening breeze stirred the wayward strands of his hair, making him appear more tousled … more devastating, she thought suddenly, a lump in her throat.
‘I know the way,’ she replied, truculently. Tilting her head to one side, she crossed her arms across her chest, a defiant gesture. In the shifting moonlight, her copper-coloured hair faded to a pale silk, loose strands drifting treacherously down from beneath her veil.
‘It’s not a question of whether you know the way or not,’ he replied tersely, ‘but the fact that you’re a woman. No noblewoman goes out unescorted—it’s utter madness.’
Brianna pushed the white froth of her veil back over her shoulder. ‘Since Hugh went away, I have had little choice in the matter,’ she replied practically, bending her gaze to his horse’s flank. Beneath the animal’s shining coat, a pulse throbbed near the surface, the beat regular and strong.
‘Up to now, maybe not,’ he agreed, ‘but you knew I would escort you to Winchester and you deliberately defied me.’
She jerked her chin up, eyes flashing fire at his chastisement. ‘I wanted to get to Hugh—I haven’t seen him for three years! Surely you can understand that?’
Aye, he could. He understood her need, her desire to be with her brother, especially after her harassment from Count John’s men. He suspected the beating he had witnessed today was one of many.
‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘who are you to order me about? You are not my lord, or my master. I can do what I want, go where I want. It’s my choice.’
In the shadows of the forest, the silver embroidery along the hem of his tunic twinkled like starlight. ‘So you do exactly as you please, without any consideration for others.’
Why, he made her sound like a spoiled brat! ‘It’s not
like that!’
‘How do you think Hugh would feel if something had happened to you?’
‘I can take care of myself!’
‘Hah! Like you took care of yourself this morning?’ he growled down derisively. The moonlight turned the ruffled strands of his hair to gold. ‘If I hadn’t come along when I did …’
She shrugged her shoulders, trying to suppress the doubt that mired her chest. ‘Those men are cowards … Lord Fulke is a coward! They would have left me alone soon enough. You, coming along like that, would have made no difference.’
‘Fighting words, my lady! Yet I suspect even you know that you lie to yourself. A woman alone is vulnerable, especially one who is stupid enough to believe she can best a man!’ She reminded him of a wild animal, cornered and vulnerable, the display of viciousness masking its puny strength.
‘I can—Hugh taught me how to use the crossbow … and the knife!’ The pitch of her words notched upwards, emerging in a spiral of rising anger and, yes, fear as well. How dare he challenge her methods of self-preservation, her hard-won skill? Instinctively her fingers moved to the jewelled knife hilt on her belt.
Giseux’s sparkling grey eyes honed in on her movement, his mouth twisting to a derogatory sneer. ‘That knife is more a hindrance than a help; it can so easily be wrested from your hands and turned against you. You would be better off not having it at all.’ The horse sidled beneath him; his big thigh muscles tensed as he maintained his upright position on the animal.
Hugh had given her the knife, before he went away. It was he who had taught her to use it properly, even though her brother could only guess at what she had experienced at the hands of her husband. She had told Hugh the barest details of her ordeal, not wanting to give voice to her time with Walter, not even with her brother. This knife, its heavy weight bumping against her hip, made her feel safe; now this man, this stranger, had the temerity to undermine its power!
‘You have no idea of what you are talking about!’ she flared up at him, long eyelashes fanning out around her blue eyes. ‘You scarce know me, yet you criticise and condemn me! How dare you?’
In a single, graceful movement he slid down from the horse, from that treacherous animal that had refused to move faster than a snail for her, and stood before her, his angled face leaning down into hers. ‘You’re living in a dream world, thinking you can protect yourself with that blade.’ He was so close that he stood within the folds of her skirts.
Instinctively, she backed away, throwing back the sides of her cloak as her fingers tightened around the hilt, sliding the knife from the leather scabbard. His arm flashed out, a lightning speed honed from years of fighting, muscular fingers upon hers, crushing, squeezing. An intense pain shot through her wrist, the knife slipping from her weakened grip. ‘You’re not being fair …’ she gasped as it fell. Giseux’s quicksilver reflex snared the blade as it flew downwards; in a trice, he turned the gleaming point, the blade a hairbreadth away from her frantically beating heart. For an endless moment they stood there, tense, taut, breathing rapidly, the moon highlighting the stillness of their bodies.
‘See how easy it was?’ His voice looped over her, dry, taunting. His hulking frame loomed so close that she caught the scent of him, a tantalising mix of spice and woodsmoke. A surge of adrenalin pulsed through her, exciting, wicked. She stepped backwards, appalled at the speed of the manoeuvre, appalled by his glittering proximity, then realised she could go no further, her heel kicking uncomfortably against the nubbled back of a trunk. Above them, an owl hooted, its call eerie within the confines of the trees.
‘Give me my knife back!’ Her voice, brittle, trembled with confusion. Palms pressed against the immovable oak, her slender body felt exposed to him, vulnerable. ‘I should have shot you when I had the chance!’
He laughed, a short bark of sound, teeth white in the shadowed tan of his face, flipping the knife back so that she could take the jewelled hilt. ‘Death by crossbow might have been preferable to escorting you.’
Brianna glared at him, hostile, stabbing the blade back in its sheath. ‘I’m not going back to Sefanoc with you,’ she announced firmly. ‘I’m carrying on to Winchester, whether you like it or not. You can’t make me go back with you.’
Giseux’s knee brushed against her leg; she flinched at the contact. His voice, when it came, was low, slipping velvet. ‘I can make you do anything I want.’ His eyes bored into hers, darkening gimlets of granite. ‘Don’t kid yourself that I, or any other man for that matter, could not … it’s dangerous to think like that.’
‘I’ve managed up to now,’ she spat back weakly. ‘And I’m still not going back with you.’
Giseux sighed. The woman was a complete fool. Of course he could make her return to Sefanoc—he could simply grab her spindly frame and dump her on his horse, kicking and screaming. Surely she realised that? He was twice the size of her, with muscle power to match. But he was awake now, and in no mood to wrangle any longer. Turning away, he walked over to his destrier, tightening the girth, before throwing himself up into the saddle. ‘Mount up,’ he ordered, kicking the shining stirrup free from his booted foot.
‘Wh-what?’ She stared up at him aghast. Vivid images piled chaotically into her brain, images of herself tucked up comfortably in the arms of Giseux, her back against his chest, her arms cradled within his. No! She couldn’t do it! ‘I can’t!’
‘You seem to manage perfectly well when you stole my horse.’ He stared down haughtily at her. Beneath him, his horse pawed the ground, dry leaves rustling against its hoof.
‘I borrowed your horse,’ she corrected him. ‘Not that it helped much; he refused to move faster than an ambling walk.’
‘He’s trained only to respond to me,’ he replied, disparagingly, holding out his hand towards her. ‘Now, come on, mount up.’
This is wrong, she thought, as she grasped his hand and stuck her slender foot in the stirrup. A quivering coil of excitement licked along her veins as he hoisted her in front of him; she bounced up as if she weighed nothing. Her hips bumped back uncomfortably into the edge of the leather saddle; she scissored one leg over the horse’s neck to ride astride. Leaning forwards, she grabbed a bunch of mane between her fists to maintain her balance.
‘Lean back.’ It was a command, not a request. His warm breath puffed over her veil; the material wafted against the nape of her neck making her shiver at the close contact. ‘At the speed we’ll be going, you’ll fall off. Lean back.’ His repeated order was terse, clipped.
I’m doing this for Hugh, she reminded herself over and over again as she moved gingerly against the solid wall of chest. Every nerve ending in her body sprang alive at the contact; beneath her layers of clothing, beneath the thick wool cloak, the gown of linen, she could feel his chest muscles ripple against her shoulder blades. The bunched muscle of his thighs pillowed her hips, rocking her intimately from side to side as the horse picked up speed. One arm snaked around her middle, the iron band yanking her more securely inwards as the horse kicked up clods of earth in its wake. She had never been this close to a man, this intimate, nay, not even with Walter; what she did now went against every promise she had made herself when she had left that horrible man. Against all inclination, she was thrown back into him, again and again. Brianna pressed her eyes together in shame, cheeks lit with flags of red.
The maid felt so fragile within his arms, her slim frame light against his chest, thought Giseux. Her appearance belied her inner strength, the innate courage that flowed within her. Like a delicate flower stem rocked by a fierce breeze, it would take a great deal to break her. He sensed she had come close that morning, that he had witnessed her teetering on the edge of total fear, of utter desolation. When those men had laid into her she had fought back like one possessed. Above the silken brush of her hair, his mouth tightened—no woman deserved such harsh treatment, whatever they had done, however they had behaved. Imperceptibly, his arms strengthened around her. Her shoulders rocked back into his chest; he grimaced as his body responded to the delicate press, the drifting lavender scent of her hair. He knew better than to become involved. Since that unspeakable time with Nadia, women, for him, had been reduced to a means of physical solace. He never asked their names in the darkness, never engaged in conversation. It suited him that way and, after what had happened, he preferred it. Without thinking, he rubbed at the aching muscle in his thigh, the single physical reminder of the woman he had loved in the East, the woman who had died trying to help him and his men. She had been on their side and had paid with her life for that loyalty. His wound was a small price in comparison, a continual ache eating into him, reminding him of his guilt, his culpability day after day. That, and the cavernous black void that was his heart.
Chapter Four
Once clear of the creaking depths of the forest and the maze of tracks within, the land rose in a series on undulating folds: gentle flat-topped plains, with pale tussocks of grass rippling violently in the wind, like hair under the water. The moon, its glowing orb travelling fast behind lacy wisps of cloud, bathed the landscape in a spectral light, accentuating the deep shadows, the brittle branches of a solitary hawthorn, contorted and bent over like an old man.
Giseux knew his location now, recognised the wide, open spaces of his childhood, or at least, his childhood before he had gone to the court of Queen Eleanor in Poitiers to train as a knight. In the forest, in the confusing bundle of trees and trackways, he had been reliant on the maid’s direction, silently following her outstretched pointing arm, until the trees grew thin on the outer boundaries.
Touching his heels to the horse’s flanks, he urged the animal up the steep sheep trail to gain the plateau above, his body leaning forwards with the altered gait. With the movement, Brianna shifted her position, arching her spine to break any contact with him. Giseux’s mouth twisted into a grimace. The stubborn little chit was doing her utmost to make this journey as awkward as possible, acting as if he were inflicted with some horrible disease, not doing her a favour.
Gaining the top of the plateau, saddle creaking under the combined weight of both riders, Giseux kicked the horse swiftly to a gallop. Now she had no choice, she had to lean back into him or risk falling off. Winding one arm tight in front of her, he winched her into his chest, sensing every muscle in her body protesting with rigid, outraged hostility. Even through the layers of her clothes, the fragile bones of her rib cage pressed against his forearm, her heart fluttering chaotically against his wrist, a moth’s wing of sensation. Despite her wilfulness towards him, she was afraid. The thought made him uncomfortable; she had no reason to be fearful of him.
The wind whipped around them as they rode, snaring Brianna’s skirts, flattening them over Giseux’s legs. It tore at her veil, sending the flimsy cloth flying across his face, in front of his eyes, blinding him. Hauling sharply on the reins, he clawed at the silk that filled his nose and covered his eyes, finally pulling it from his face and, in the same movement, tearing it from Brianna’s head. The gold circlet spun out into the darkness, landing with a soft rustle in one of the tussocks of grass.
‘My circlet!’ she gasped in surprise. Before he had time to anticipate her movement, she slid haphazardly, chaotically, from the horse as it slowed to a trot, stumbling down on to the uneven ground, tipping forwards on her hands and knees. Momentarily winded, she sat back on her heels on the damp grass, casting her eyes about for the sparkle of circlet. A raft of weariness flooded over her, sapping her strength.
‘Why didn’t you wait?’ Giseux shouted down at her, the fierce wind tugging at his words. ‘I would have fetched your circlet.’
Brianna smoothed one hand over the wrinkled puddle of her skirts, pins and needles beginning to prickle in her foot as she remained in the kneeling position, sitting back on her calves. She felt safer on the ground. The prolonged nearness of his body, the strong warmth of his chest at her back, had made her leap from the saddle at the slightest excuse. She chewed at her lip, frowning; already she missed the close contact of his hard frame. The cold wind whipped at her cloak, flipping back the dark edges to reveal the shimmer of lining.
‘We’re wasting time.’ Against the faded backdrop of the moon-soaked land, Giseux swung down from the horse, black surcoat glimmering with traces of silver flattened against his tall frame.
‘You’re the one who threw my veil away,’ she chided, clambering to her feet, grimacing as the blood rushed back into her toes. She wiggled her foot, trying to reassemble her scattered thoughts. When was the last time she had wanted to be this close to a man?
‘Only to prevent a more serious accident,’ Giseux reminded her. He scooped up the white scrap of silk, the loop of gold, tucking them against his chest, behind the surcoat. ‘I have them.’
Her mouth dropped open in surprise at his action and she held out her hand, skirts blowing out wildly behind her. The wind dragged at her hair, threatening to dislodge the silken bundle at the nape of her neck; hastily she lifted her fingers to push the pins back in. ‘I’ll have my veil now,’ she demanded, attempting to retain a modicum of control in the situation.
Giseux shook his head as he paced back to the horse. ‘Nay, it’s too windy; the same thing could happen again.’
She opened her mouth to disagree once more, but her words were abruptly cut off as he seized her waist and threw her easily up into the saddle. ‘You’re delaying things by arguing,’ he murmured, moving in behind her on the saddle. ‘I thought you were desperate to see your brother!’
‘I am,’ she squeaked back, trying to wriggle her hips forwards, away from him.
‘Then stop arguing with me, stop fighting me and let me take you there!’ he rumbled back at her. ‘And for God’s sake, stop wriggling!’
The castle at Sambourne loomed impressively out of the wide river valley, old stones draped in a drifting mist. Holding a flaming torch aloft, a soldier stepped forwards from the archway of the gatehouse, taking hold of Giseux’s bridle. He nodded, smiled, as he recognised the knight, standing aside to let them pass. After the flaring brightness of the torch, Brianna blinked rapidly in the darkness of the gatehouse, the horse’s hooves clattering loudly in the confined space.
‘My lady?’ Giseux was already standing on the greasy cobbles of the inner bailey, holding one hand out to her. Her natural instinct, the safer instinct, was to refuse his help, to slide to the ground unaided. ‘I …’ She hesitated.
‘Oh, come on,’ he berated her impatiently, diamond eyes challenging. ‘Accept my help for once; it would make your life much easier.’
She placed her hand in his, allowing her smaller fingers to be swallowed up by his burly grip as she swung her leg over. His other hand came around her waist, and, unbalanced, she fell against him, her cheek brushing fleetingly against his. A rush of awareness pulsed through her at the scrape of day-old beard against the soft swell of her cheek, the potent smell of him.
‘Here.’ Giseux dug her veil and circlet out from the depths of his surcoat and handed them to her.
Fingers trembling from the unexpected contact, she jammed the circlet on her head, securing the veil. ‘Take me to Hugh, please.’
The gold band gleamed lopsidedly at him. His fingers propelled towards her head, rustling against the silk as he adjusted the circlet, setting it straight. Unprepared for his gesture, Brianna flinched backwards, eyes wild with alarm.
Giseux frowned. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Brianna’s reaction had been exactly as if he had been going to hit her. ‘You need not to be frightened of me.’
Oh, but I am, thought Brianna dully, as she dogged the substantial breadth of his back up the stone steps to the main doorway. I am afraid … afraid of all men, and the things of which they are capable. That’s why I hide myself away from them, shun all acts of kindness, recoil against any tenderness. What happened in the past could not, would not happen again.
Giseux led her to Hugh’s chamber, high in the north turret of the castle, up three steep flights of a spiral staircase. He pushed against a heavily planked wooden door, stepping aside to allow her to precede him. As she crossed the threshold, a solid wall of heat hit her in the face. At first, she could see nothing, only the glow of coals from a charcoal brazier in the corner, throwing their reddish light along the oak-panelled wall. She searched the gloom, saw the bed, found her brother.
His head was cushioned on an enormous linen pillow, his hair matted, stuck to his scalp. His face was chalk-white, apart from two spots of vivid colour on his cheekbones, the skin grown thin and gaunt. Blood-encrusted scabs flecked his dry, cracked lips; beads of shiny perspiration peppered his forehead. A linen nightshirt covered his frame, his forearms and wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves, stretched on the fur coverlet, palms facing upwards. Every now and again, a spate of shivering seemed to take hold of him, like some unknown presence shaking his body like one possessed.
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Meriel Fuller
WOUNDED SOLDIER When he returns from the Crusades, battle-scarred and tortured by painful memories, it is only Count Giseux de St-Loup’s code of chivalry that sees him escorting a sharp-tongued spitfire of a lady on a quest to help her injured brother.WAYWARD LADY The beautiful Lady Brianna is fiercely independent, and finds his powerful presence disturbing. As the danger surrounding her grows deeper, Giseux is forced to extend his protection further than either of them ever wanted it to go…
‘Giseux,’ she said loudly. ‘Giseux, wake up!’
In response, his fingers clawed into his upper thigh, the sinews in his hand rigid, straining. Snaring the muscular bulk of his shoulders between her hands, she tried to shake him, tried to lift his upper body from the ground. But to no avail: he was too heavy. In desperation her eyes searched the cottage interior, the uneven walls, for something that might help, before a sudden bizarre idea touched her.
Blood hurtled through her veins, blossoming in the skin of her face.
Hands on his shoulders, she dipped her head. Kissed him.
Her soft lips touched his firm mouth in a last attempt to hush the demons of the night that claimed him. A dangerous warmth stole over her, melting her limbs, turning the muscles in her knees to useless mush; she shuddered, striving to hold her body away from him. It was only a kiss, she told herself. A simple device to alleviate his distress. Yet the touch of his mouth spiralled each nerve in her body to a singing desire, a yearning for more.
About the Author
MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history—particularly the early medieval period—makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past, and has made her research a special treat.
Novels by the same author:
CONQUEST BRIDE
THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE
THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE
CAPTURED BY THE WARRIOR
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Her Battle-Scarred Knight
Meriel Fuller
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Chapter One
Sefanoc, Wiltshire, England—January 1193
Brianna leaned her cheek against the cow’s yielding flank, fingers reaching under the animal to squeeze blood-warm milk from the udder. In the early morning stillness of the byre, the liquid squirted noisily against the sides of the wooden pail, steaming in the chill air. She heard William, the farmer, talking softly to one of the cows at the other end of the byre, imagined him budging one animal out of the way, so he could start milking the next cow in line. He was much faster than her, milking two cows to her one. But his wife was ill this morning and Brianna had offered to help when he’d come knocking at the door of the manor house, blowing on his hands to warm them, his breath puffing white in the darkness. They couldn’t afford to lose the milk; it was a vital source of income in these hard times. As with other estates, most of their money had been taken by King Richard to fund his crusade to the Holy Land. The manor was earning very little; she had enough coin to pay the farmer and his wife, who maintained the land and livestock, and Alys, who had served her family since Brianna was a child. ‘Mistress! My lady!’
Brianna jumped at the shrill, tremulous warning, startled from the soporific rhythm of the milking. Her maidservant stood in the doorway, her face white, body quivering with fear.
‘Alys, what is it?’ Brianna twisted around on the milking stool, her auburn braids gleaming in the dim light of the byre.
Alys’s eyes grew wide, the thin skin of her face stretched over her bony cheeks. ‘They’ve come back. Count John’s men; they’re looking for you.’
Brianna grinned. ‘Well, they won’t find me at home, will they, Alys?’ She patted the cow’s flank, extricating the half-full bucket from beneath the pink udders. ‘I’ll put this in the churn, William. Butter sells quickly at the market.’
William stood, resting one hand on a cow’s rump to lever himself up. ‘Aye, you do that, mistress. Martha can churn, if she’s feeling better. If not, I’ll do it myself.’ He tipped his head, topped with a mop of grizzled grey hair, in the direction of the manor. ‘Do you want me to go and see what’s happening?’
Brianna shook her head, clutching the pail of slopping milk to her middle as she rose to her feet.
‘Oh, but, mistress, you’re never going to go yourself?’ Alys gabbled, her breath coming in short little pants. ‘There’s more of them this time, with torches, circling around, one of them banging on the door.’ She shuddered. ‘I slipped out the back of the kitchen … came to find you. What if they do something to our home? What if they … torch it?’
Brianna laid a hand on Alys’s shoulder. ‘Alys, you must calm down … they wouldn’t do such a thing. It’s the manor and lands that the Count wishes, remember. And they can’t have it because I’m in their way.’
‘They’re stronger than you, mistress.’
‘But I’m cleverer than most of their thick skulls put together.’
‘Count John won’t stop until he has what he wants, my lady.’
Brianna put one hand to her forehead, smiling. ‘Please don’t remind me, Alys. But I have no intention of being forcibly married off to one of those thugs, as I’ve made perfectly clear in several letters to Count John himself.’
Alys bit her lip. ‘That Count is the devil himself, mistress, and he’ll stop at nothing to give the manor of Sefanoc, and you, to one of his men.’
Brianna’s light blue eyes blazed in the dimness of the byre. ‘The manor of Sefanoc is not his to give away. It belongs to Hugh.’
Doubt flickered across the maidservant’s face.
‘Hugh will be back soon,’ Brianna reassured her. ‘Everything will be fine once he returns.’
‘But …’ The servant’s voice faltered.
‘Alys, I forbid you to look like that! Hugh will be back. He’s obviously been delayed on the journey in some way.’
‘The Somervilles have returned, and the de Laceys,’ Alys reminded her.
‘And they remember seeing Hugh waiting for the boats on the beach in France,’ Brianna replied, plucking at a loose thread on her girdle. ‘My brother will be back soon. Now, come on, Alys, you can help us finish this milking.’
A crack of sunlight appeared across the eastern horizon as Brianna emerged from the warmth of the barn, drawing the hood of her short woollen cape securely over her head, covering the bright red-gold of her hair. She stepped lightly across the cobbles in the direction of her home. Her hands ached from the effort of milking so many cows; flexing her fingers, she tried to relieve the stiffness. Alys had stayed behind to churn the butter, the wan, exhausted face of the farmer’s wife indicating to Brianna that she would be in no fit state to do anything today.
Rather than return home by the shorter route, through the forest, she decided to cut through the flat fields to the north—hopefully the open ground would enable her to spot Count John’s men if they had decided to linger. It had been some time since Alys had raised the alarm, so it was entirely possibly that they had returned to Count John’s castle at nearby Merleberge to break their fast. As her feet skipped across the frosted grass, she prayed they had become bored and hungry with the wait. Men like that, with no self-discipline, no stamina, couldn’t last for long without food in their bellies.
Ducking through a gap in the stubby hawthorn hedge that divided two fields, she bit her lip. Despite her solid, confident smile in front of Alys and the farmer, she wondered how long she could hold out against the King’s powerful younger brother. How long would it be before her own brother came home from the Crusades? A tight coil of fear began to unravel in her gut; she clamped it down fiercely before it gained momentum. She would hold out for as long as it took, she told herself sternly, she must protect and defend the manor of Sefanoc in Hugh’s name. Instinctively her fingers moved towards the thick belt slung low around her neat waist, checking the knife in its scabbard that hung from it—the knife that would keep her safe.
Her feet broke through the thin layer of ice covering the standing water spread out in patches on the low-lying field, and squelched into the cold mud beneath, water seeping between the thick leather sole and uppers of her stout boots. The river, its course marked by an occasional stubby willow, the bright orange branches shining bright and straight in the rising sun, had flooded regularly this winter. The cattle had been restricted in the amount of grass they had to eat and the farmer had been forced to dig into their precious supplies of stored hay in order to supplement their diet. For a moment, she paused, sweeping her eye back over the field, assessing the amount of damage the most recent flood had wrought, and how much grass there was left for her dairy herd.
‘Good morning, my lady Brianna.’
Her heart leapt in fright; the voice shocked through her, low and dangerous, a slick ripple of fear. She raised her eyes reluctantly to the man on the horse, a man, it seemed, who had appeared from nowhere. And behind him, two other soldiers on horseback, their surcoats bearing the colours of Count John.
‘Lord Fulke.’ She nodded with the briefest deference to the older man who had first addressed her. His buff-coloured tunic strained across his round belly as he adjusted his position in the saddle, the split sides revealing fleshy thighs stuffed into brown woollen braies. His iron-grey hair was thick, a greasy mat against his scalp.
‘What an unexpected pleasure!’ Lord Fulke exclaimed, his voice a sarcastic falsetto. He nudged his horse so that his booted foot in the stirrup moved on to a level with her chest. The other two soldiers, one darkly scowling, one a fresh-faced youth, manoeuvred their horses around to box her in at her back. She was surrounded. Her chest tightened, but she would not, nay, could not, panic. They would not harm her, they wouldn’t dare! They had been sent to harass her, to force her to agree to Count John’s ridiculous plan. They hoped to wear her down by their constant intimidation, but it wouldn’t work!
‘Let me pass, Lord Fulke.’ Brianna fought to keep her voice level, calm. ‘You have nothing to gain from
this.’
Lord Fulke snorted with laughter, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, some streaked with black, others a particularly nasty yellow hue. ‘On the contrary, my dear lady, we have everything to gain. If only you would agree to the alliance with Hubert of Winterbourne, life would be so much easier for you.’
‘And I’ve told you before—’ Brianna tossed her head back ‘—Sefanoc is not mine to give away.’ Crossing her arms over her middle to disguise her actions, Brianna clasped her fingers around the hilt of the knife.
Lord Fulke’s heavy frame thumped down before her as he dismounted. Up close, he was about the same height as her, wide and thickset. His foul breath wafted over her as he spoke. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, my lady,’ he continued silkily. ‘Your brother is most certainly dead; he will not return now from the Crusades. All our men are home.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘And the manor of Sefanoc needs a lord in charge.’
‘Over my dead body.’ Brianna expelled the words in a hiss of breath. ‘You have no right to do this; you know I have the protection of King Richard …’
‘But King Richard isn’t here, is he?’
‘He will return, just like my brother! Now let me pass!’ In one swift, neat movement, she pulled the knife from its scabbard, holding the point to Lord Fulke’s chest. Shock clogged the man’s face; the two soldiers behind her moved in. One grabbed her shoulders to jerk her back sharply, the other knocked the knife away with a short, painful chopping motion, the side of his hand against her wrist.
Lord Fulke cleared his throat, adjusted his belt self-consciously on his padded hips. ‘You’ve been without a man in charge for too long, it seems.’ He licked his lips in a curious half-smile, eyes running lecherously over Brianna’s diminutive figure, the perfect oval of her face. ‘Your conduct is unseemly, wilful. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated in a lady; it seems we need to teach you a lesson. You will soon come to your senses, young lady. We will make sure of it.’
Count Giseux de St-Loup urged the muscled flanks of his stallion up the narrow sheep track to the brow of the ridge, leaning his tall frame forwards in the saddle to hasten the animal’s ascent. His chainmail hauberk glinted dully in the morning sun, the bright orb partially obscured by wisps of white cloud. Halting the animal at the top of the escarpment, Giseux let the reins drop, lifting both hands to remove his iron conical helmet to reveal a lean, tanned face, bruises of exhaustion dabbed beneath grey eyes. Flapping open his leather saddlebag, he grabbed his water bottle, pulling the cork stopper to drink deep. The cool, sweet-tasting water poured down his throat like an elixir, driving back the waves of tiredness, reviving him. Wiping his mouth on the leather pad sewn against the palm of his chainmail mittens, he replaced the water bottle, then swept his gaze across the soft countryside below him, one hand unconsciously kneading at the dull ache in his upper
thigh.
From this high vantage point, he could see the castle at Merleberge rising up out of the river mist as if it floated on air; a castle that Count John had made his own whilst his older brother, King Richard, was away on crusade. The valley fell away in gentle scoops of green, ridges rolling away into the distance, fading blue. Even the jagged nakedness of the deciduous trees in winter—the scrappy hawthorn, the majestic oak—all served to enhance, not detract, from the beauty of this winter landscape. His eye was unaccustomed to such sights and his mind baulked against it, resented it. Such exquisiteness made him restless, irritable, after the years he had spent on crusade: savage days spent marching endlessly through the scorching sand, pushing his men through inhospitable rocky valleys, a constant craving for water. But strangely, whilst all of his soldiers were relieved to be home, he wanted to be back there, back in those wretched conditions, pitting the strength of his mind and body against the elements, the sheer effort of keeping himself alive driving his mind from deeper, darker thoughts. He craved the harsh light of Jerusalem, needed it, deserved it.
But the crusade was finished, over; the agreement had been signed between King Richard and Saladin. Both sides, both Christians and Saracens, had won. In his heart, the victory seemed hollow, pointless, after so many lives had been lost in the process. The lives of his men in one of the last raids on Narsuf. And the life of … His hands tightened around the reins, seeking balance as the familiar rage, the guilt that haunted his days and nights, rose within him … nay, he would not think of that now. Soon enough he would find the traitor who had turned against them, avenge his soldiers’ deaths … and hers. But now, he had to fulfil a promise to a fellow knight. He hoped it wouldn’t take him too long.
‘Will you agree?’ Lord Fulke yanked Brianna’s head from the water trough once more, podgy fingers snarled in her wet, dripping hair, twisting the strands tight, like a rope, pulling viciously against her scalp. She fought the urge to yelp with pain, gritting her teeth in determination; she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. Her short-lived marriage to Walter had taught her that, at least. Bracing her knees against the wooden trough, lined with puddled clay to provide drinking water for the cattle, she clutched at the rim with red-raw fingers, steeling herself for the next onslaught. Her wide blue eyes, lashes spiked darkly wet, blazed with fury.
‘How dare you do this to me?’ she managed to stutter out through lips purplish-blue with cold. ‘The King will hear of this!’
‘But nobody knows where he is, my lady,’ Fulke reminded her. ‘And until we know, we can do what we
like.’
Her heart plummeted as he shoved her head beneath the water once more. They had broken the ice on the surface after they had manhandled her over to the corner of the field where the trough was situated. The water was freezing, instantly numbing the skin on her face, driving nails of ice into her ears, her eyes, her nose. Brianna held her breath for as long as she could, before allowing the air from her lungs to leak out slowly, hoping, praying that they would pull her out before … before she ran out. Desperation plucked at her chest, a scythe of panic. Surely they wouldn’t kill her? Doubt crept into her mind, whispering, insidious, forcing her to acknowledge her vulnerability; she sagged momentarily as her chest began to burn. Then the cruel yank of Fulke’s fist at the back of her head pulled her up again, and she gasped, sucked greedily, filling her lungs with fresh air.
‘There is an easier way, my dear,’ Lord Fulke commented smoothly, throwing a disparaging bloodshot glance over her dripping face, her sodden braids. ‘You need to agree … agree to this marriage.’
‘Never,’ she vowed. ‘You’ll have to kill me first.’ She crossed her arms over her chest, clutching at her arms in an effort to stop the incessant shivering. Threads of water trailed down her neck, beneath the collar of her cloak, wetting the rough fabric of her gown.
Lord Fulke mangled his thick lips into the semblance of a smile. ‘Let’s hope that it won’t come to that.’ The threat in his voice was unmistakable.
Fear coursed through her body, firing bolts of adrenalin straight to her heart. So they would kill her! She needed time, time to think, time to plan! But judging from the menacing look in Fulke’s eyes, time was one thing she did not have. Closing her eyes, she pretended to faint, falling in a crumpled heap to the ground, up against the edge of the trough, her hand scrabbling about behind her in the mud for something, anything, that might be able to help her. A stone! Her fingers grazed against its roughness, cupped it swiftly into her palm. She hoped it would be enough.
Fulke cursed, eyes flicking moodily over the slumped figure.
‘She’s had enough, now, hasn’t she, my lord?’ one of the other soldiers remarked.
‘Don’t let the chit fool you, Stephen. She’s a clever piece.’
Brianna smelled the wash of Fulke’s noxious breath as he leaned down to her. Tightening her grip on the stone, she brought it round to smash it against his head with all the force she could muster. Only it wasn’t enough. The gritty stone dropped from her fingers.
‘Why, you little …!’ Fulke roared, clutching at the gash on his forehead. The purpling cut oozed blood, startlingly red against the white slab of his forehead. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ Before Brianna had time to anticipate his next move, the weight of his fist crashed into her jaw and her small frame crumpled to the ground, this time for real.
‘We’ve got her now,’ Fulke murmured, almost to himself. ‘We’ve got her now.’ He rose to his full height, jubilant, smug victory painted on his face, expecting to meet the smirking expressions of his younger henchmen.
But the soldiers’ faces were turned away, fixed on the open gateway, slack-jawed, staring at something, someone. One of the men stumbled back, catching the back of his leg on the trough.
Alongside the scrubby hawthorn hedge, a huge black destrier flew across the marshy field, snorting impatiently, wildly, rearing its glossy head in a restless jangle of bit and bridle as it approached the three men, the fallen maid. Sprays of water flicked out from behind the horse’s heavy hooves, loose droplets forming sparkling arcs in the weak sunlight.
A nervous laugh punched from Fulke’s mouth; he licked his lips.
A black woollen tunic covered the horseman’s chainmail; his shield was black, decorated with a raised silver lattice. No markings gave away his identity, no gilded family crest on the shield, no embroidery across his tunic; a bright steel helmet obscured his features. Hauling deftly on the reins, the unknown rider brought the animal slewing to a stop before the men, shuffled into a guilty line in front of Brianna, trying to hide the horrific extent of their intimidation with the bulk of their bodies. The warm air emerging from the horse’s widening nostrils ghosted the air, steam rising from the very pit of hell.
‘What the devil is happening here?’ Through the slits of his helmet, the knight’s voice was muffled, grim. He jumped off the horse in one easy, graceful movement, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he approached Fulke.
‘Nothing to concern yourself about, I’m sure, my lord.’ Fulke bowed obsequiously, spreading his hands flat before him, as if to physically reassure the newcomer there was no harm done. He cowered beneath the stranger’s superior height, trying to step back before realising that the huddled form of Brianna lay behind his heels, checking him. ‘This ignorant maid simply refuses to do as she’s told. She needed to learn a lesson.’
‘Then it looks like she’s learned it,’ the stranger remarked tautly, sweeping his gaze over Brianna’s forlorn frame, tumbled against the trough. From her appearance, the maid was still unconscious; her face was pale, deathly pale, a livid bruise darkening rapidly across her jawline.
Fulke had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. ‘Aye, well, we best be on our way.’ He nodded significantly at his two soldiers, rubbing his gloved hands together in an industrious way. ‘Lots to do, lots to do.’ He paused, staring with curiosity at the plain, unadorned wool of the knight’s tunic, trying to discern the man’s features through the forbidding slits in his helmet. ‘I … er … are you from hereabouts?’
‘Nay. I am looking for someone.’
‘Mayhap I could help you.’ Fulke squeezed his hands together, kneading his fingers. He felt the need to make amends, to distract this stranger from the unconscious maid at his back. ‘Whom do you seek?’
‘Brianna of Sefanoc. Lady Brianna. I was told that she lives hereabouts.’
The colour washed from Fulke’s face; he touched a hand to his chin, a self-conscious gesture. It was all he could do to stop himself looking over at the girl; he prayed fervently that his soldiers would keep their mouths shut. If certain parties heard a whisper of their actions, their treatment of a noblewoman, they would be punished severely. His name, Fulke, would be linked back to Count John, his lord and master, who would be highly displeased at the exposure, especially now. These were troubled times, the whole country jittery with the news that King Richard had been taken prisoner on his return from the Crusades. Only Count John, the King’s younger brother, was rubbing his hands with glee, for if Richard failed to return, then he would surely be crowned King of England.
Fulke screwed the thicket of his eyebrows together in a semblance of thinking. ‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of her,’ he lied casually, carefully. ‘It’s not a name I know.’ He began to sidle off towards the horses. ‘I wish you luck in your venture, sire. Good day to you.’ Fulke levered himself onto his animal, raising an arm in farewell as he kicked the animal into a fast canter, clods of frozen earth kicking up in his wake as he followed his men.
The maid appeared barely alive, Giseux thought, as he approached the spot where she lay. Crouching down beside her, he pulled off his chainmail mittens, pushing two fingers efficiently against the side of her neck, checking, reassuring himself. Her face was so white, devoid of any colour, with such a sickening blueness about her lips that he could have believed she were dead, yet to his relief her blood beat strongly beneath his fingers. He removed his helmet, then his shield, held against his chest with a worn leather strap, placing both on the grass, and pushed back the hood of the chainmail protecting his head. The metallic links, bound together to form a flexible material, fell in loose, snake-like folds at the nape of his neck; the light brown strands of his hair sprung free from their confinement, vigorous.
She lay flat on her back, sprawled across the ice-encrusted mud, one arm slung across her body, the other stretched out, her hand curled, small and white. Her unusual amber-coloured hair, darkened by the water, straggled across her bodice like ripples in the sand. A peasant girl, from the look of her clothes, he thought; her coarse woollen gown had been mended in several places with crudely cut patches. The garment hung like a sack about her frame, bunching in thick gathers at her waist; her creased leather boots, scuffed and caked in mud, stuck out from beneath the hem of her skirts. The shiny soles were almost worn through. He’d interrupted a domestic dispute, no doubt, a fight between servant and master.
The girl opened her eyes.
Chapter Two
Giseux’s heart knocked against the wall of his chest. Sudden. Unexpected. Sounds diminished, fell away into the background: the incessant chirruping of a robin, diving under the blackthorn; his horse ripping up the frosted grass with massive teeth, chewing steadily. The maid’s eyes were wide, bright blue, ice blue, luminescent as the sky at dawn. They snared him, sucked him into their amazing depths, a whirlpool so fast and strong that he had no time to think. His mind reeled within their power as he leaned forwards, amazed.
As he dropped to his knees, Brianna cried out—a long wavering wail of panic, the bundled-up fear bursting from her chest, fear that she had fought to keep under control throughout Fulke’s mauling. And now he’d sent someone else to deal with her. Her vision hazed with fright as the huge soldier hulked over her, silver eyes sparkling with a predatory gleam; he would surely kill her! Broad shoulders blocked out the light, cast her in shadow, as her knuckles scraped desperately against the rough wooden trough, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of stability as she screamed and screamed. Would no one come for her, would no one help her? Her shrieking rent the still air, piercing, pitching up a notch as firm hands curled about her shoulders, steadied her.
‘Stop!’ a low voice ordered, a rippling burr of sound close to her ear. ‘Do you want to bring them back?’ The warmth of the man’s breath fanned her cheek, before he lowered his hands.
Her mouth shut abruptly. Pain in the left side of her jaw chewed into her, relentless, an ache beginning to spread up the side of her cheek. Blood tasted like rust against her tongue. Tears sprung from her eyes, her body trembling, as she hoisted herself up awkwardly, flinging her arms out to push the stranger away. Her fingers flailed outwards, skittering over the black wool across his immense chest; her pathetic attempts failed to shift him. Exhausted by unravelling fear, she let her arms fall limply to her sides.
‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Brianna stuttered out, her voice a weak thread; her lips were dry, bruised. Energy seeped from her body, her small frame slumping back against the trough, her breathing rapid, truncated, puffing clouds of white in the cold air. The leather lace securing her braid had loosened; now the curling end was beginning to unravel, the magnificent amber hair shining against the sagging weave of her brown bodice. ‘But I’d rather be locked up, or dead, than do what you want me to do.’ The man’s intimidating grey eyes glittered over her, incisive, piercing, as if they drilled down into her very soul. Another wave of panic lurched up, pushing out the sides of her chest, and she dug her heels into the mud, intending to scrabble backwards if he came for her.
Sitting back on his heels, Giseux watched the trails of sparkling liquid track down her puffy, mottled cheek, heard the great, gasping sobs seize at her chest. The girl obviously believed him to be in league with the thugs who had just roughed her up. A tiny pulse beat frantically at her neck, beneath the white, fragile skin in the hollow of her throat; her fear of him was palpable, radiating from her body in waves of tension. The sight of her tears bit into him, tugged cruelly at his memory, but he clamped down firmly on the encroaching vision. He had no wish to remember.
‘Easy, maid,’ he said in his deep, rumbling voice. The words of comfort felt untested, awkward, like dusty rocks in his mouth. The battle for Jerusalem had been long and relentless; there had been little opportunity or time to offer solace to others—had he forgotten how? Or had the ugliness, the cruelty of fighting driven it from his soul? The hard frozen earth jagged into his knees; as he shifted, trying to ease his cramped calf muscles, she reared backwards, abruptly, like a wild, cornered animal. A rueful smile twisted his mouth as he shook his head, shook out the gold-tipped fronds of his hair: a lion’s mane, the blunt ends like spun gold around the rugged angles of his face. ‘Nay, nay, I will not hurt you.’
Brianna eyed him blankly, disbelieving, driving the flats of her hands and feet into the hard mud to hitch away from him. Where was her knife? She had to protect herself! As she raised herself up from the ground, every muscle in her body aching, protesting, the voluminous gown that she wore pressed against her body, revealing her high, rounded bosom, the golden-red weave of her hair falling like spun net across her chest. She managed to make a small space between them, heart racing beneath his steely perusal before the heel of her boot snared in the trailing hem of her gown, preventing any further escape.
‘Let me help you up. Can you stand?’ Impatient not to prolong the episode, Giseux stretched out one hand, tanned and sinewy, to help her up.
She slapped at his fingers, catching the side of his palm. The sharp smack reverberated in the confined corner of the field, bouncing between the thorny hedgerows, studded with bright berries. ‘Get away from me! Go! Leave me alone!’ The shrillness of her voice screeched into his ear, scraping at the limits of his patience. ‘You need to go away!’
‘And you need to mind your manners!’ Deep within him, the short rope of his temper began to fray; the girl’s behaviour was ridiculous, unnecessary. It wasn’t the physical blow—that had been nothing, a mere moth’s touch from her slim fingers—but the girl’s complete failure to comprehend that he was not her enemy. His initial intention to offer her comfort, to help her in some way, as any passing stranger would do, had gone seriously awry. He didn’t have the time to squander on such foolish conduct, and at this rate, his act of mercy was threatening to take all day. It would be so much easier to walk away. But he couldn’t leave her here, hunched, pathetic, like a half-drowned kitten that spat and snarled at him whenever he approached. It went against every code he had been brought up to believe.
‘I am not going to leave you here, sitting on the frozen ground. I am not going to hurt you.’
‘How do I know?’ she threw back at him, her body rigid and hostile, cerulean eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘How do I know that this isn’t another trick? The words emerged in jerky fashion, her voice wobbling with the cold. She wrapped her arms firmly about her chest, trying to stop the violent shudders that racked her body.
He set his lips in a firm forbidding line, a ripple of irritation lacing his big frame. ‘I’m not one of them. You have to trust me.’
‘Trust?’ Laughter burst from her lips, a spray of jangled sound couched with a bubble of hysteria. ‘Surely you jest? It’s obvious you are one of Count John’s men, sent to pick up the pieces.’ Brianna wriggled her feet, attempting to move her frozen toes. She needed to find the strength, the determination, to stand up, to walk away. A cloying weakness dragged at her legs; this last attack had surely been the worst. And it appeared that it wasn’t over yet.
Gathering the last scraps of courage from her body, she tipped her head defiantly, meeting his pewter gaze. ‘I’ll not go back with you. I’ll not go back to Merleberge.’
‘I have no intention of making you go anywhere,’ he replied, his tone brimming with contempt. Sunburn dusted his high cheekbones, a reddish-brown colour that spoke of distant lands. His mouth was generous, top lip narrow, well defined, in stark, shocking comparison to the sensual fullness of his bottom lip. Brown hair, gilded, fell forwards in thick strands over his brow, ruffled by the breeze. ‘But it would help if I could take you somewhere, to a place of safety. Sooner, rather than
later.’
He propelled himself up in one sinuous, graceful movement; she instinctively raised her hands, as if to ward off further attack, but to her surprise he ignored her, heading towards his horse. Her heart eased as she watched him, noting that he limped—the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a pause, as his right foot moved forwards. His chainmail, glinting like fish scales, fitted his tall frame like a second skin, revealing the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the powerful strength of his long legs. The fine cloth of his surcoat held a dull sheen in the fragile sunshine, secured to his slim hips with a wide leather sword belt.
‘Here, have this, you’re freezing.’
She cast a cursory glance at the bundle of cloth between his hands: a cloak, of midnight blue, the collar edged in fur.
‘I’ve told you, leave me. I want nothing from you.’ She tried to inject some strength into her voice. Clutching valiantly at the trough with clenched, icy fingers, she pushed her body weight upwards. A raft of dizziness swept through her head as she stood up straight and she swayed, nausea boiling in her stomach. ‘Go away,’ she whispered. ‘For the love of God, go away.’ Her lids, blue-veined and pale, fluttered down, spiky black lashes fanning her cheeks. She wanted to recover from her humiliating ordeal in her own time, at her own pace, without this man, this stranger, witnessing her every move.
He assessed her wilting figure critically, the hint of a mocking smile playing across his lips; a large bear-like hand curled around her shoulder. ‘Mayhap you should stay sitting for a while?’
Brianna wrested her shoulder furiously from his grasp, from the unwanted contact, eyes caged, fiery breath caught in the trap of her throat. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she lashed at him, ‘don’t you dare touch me!’ She turned, stumbling a little over the tussocky grass, spotting the gleam of her knife in the rough vegetation. Her head swam as she crouched to pick it up, to secure the blade once more in its scabbard at her waist. Then, without a backward glance, the blurry horizon line teetering before her, she took one step tentatively back towards the farm. Somehow, the thought of returning to her own cold, empty home failed to fill her with confidence.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ The stranger’s voice boomed out over her, a snare of exasperation.
Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away. Brianna focused on the gateway, forcing her wooden, unwilling legs to move forwards, aware that her gait was unbalanced, wobbling even. If she could just stretch her fingers out to reach the gatepost …
A hand grasped her upraised forearm, strong tapered fingers snaring the point where the wide cuff of her rough sleeve had fallen back, exposing the limpid marble of her skin. Beneath the loose hold of his fingers, her pulse scurried along, too fast. Legs buckling, Brianna staggered against the oak gatepost, the wood split and grey, speckled with a frothing mat of sage-green lichen.
He was at her back, the rounded bulk of his shoulder curving into hers, the heat from his body burning her spine. The silken strands of her hair stirred with his breath … no, too close! Vexed, she squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away the hot threat of tears at his continued, unwanted presence.
‘I swear you are the rudest, most ungrateful chit I have ever met.’ His voice curled into her, hardened by iron-clad threads of irritation. ‘Now, tell me where you live and I will take you there.’ From his lofty vantage point, he traced the elegant arch of her dark copper brow, the creamy curve of her cheek. Her skin was fine, polished: the rich, sleek lustre of a pearl. Up close, the purpling bruise on her jawline looked savage; it must hurt like hell, he thought, suddenly.
‘Nay,’ she responded quickly. Her frozen skin tingled beneath the pads of his fingers. She tried to jerk away, to take one more tottering step, but he held firm. ‘I don’t want your help.’
‘Oh, but I think you do,’ Giseux responded calmly. He hadn’t realised how small she was; if he leaned forward a notch, the top of her head would brush his chin. ‘You can scarce take a step without nearly falling down. However near your home might be, it would take you all day to reach it.’
‘But I would reach it … eventually,’ Brianna threw back, tilting her chin up with determination, ‘without your help.’ A rising anxiety fluttered in her chest at his proximity, clawing at her innards. He was like a solid, immovable wall, glittering, formidable. His hand fell from her arm and she clung to the post for support. She bit her lip, humiliated, furious at her own pathetic weakness, beset with a flooding sense of her own vulnerability.
Giseux sighed, folding his arms high across his chest. ‘I don’t understand you. For all you know, those men could be waiting for you in the next field over. Are you really that stupid?’
Lips set in a mutinous line, Brianna glared dully at the horizon, defeat clogging her heart. The man gave her no choice; she suspected he would dog her steps until he saw her to a place of safety. Then, and only then, would she be rid of him.
‘I live over there.’ She gestured vaguely towards the low roofs of the farm on the horizon, not trusting him with the truth. ‘It’s not far.’
‘Then let’s go.’ Giseux gathered up his shield from the spot where she had fallen, slinging the glossy black armour across his body, securing his helmet and cloak to the rump of his horse, before catching up the reins.
A shout from the field beyond forced Brianna to lift her head. Spotting the round, familiar figure of the farmer trotting alongside the hedge, hefting a heavy iron mace between his thick hands, she almost collapsed with relief. The sides of William’s leather jerkin flapped out from his hips as he jogged along, his normally jovial face red with exertion, his eyes wide with concern.
‘William!’ she called over to him. ‘Over here!’ Whirling around, she noted that the knight tracked the farmer’s advance with interest. ‘No need to escort me now.’ She expelled her pent-up breath in a long gasp, her relief evident in the sag of her body, the brightness of her features. ‘William can take me home.’
Granite eyes narrowed. ‘You know this man?’
She nodded. ‘He’s my father.’ The lie tripped easily from her tongue; she felt the need for some protection, however fictitious.
‘He needs to keep a closer eye on you.’ Swinging up into the saddle, a surprisingly lithe, efficient movement for such a big man, the stranger pulled up the reins, his stance relaxed, easy as the horse sidled beneath him.
‘Tell me, do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’
Breath punched from her lungs at the astonishing question, toes curling in her boots as she glared blankly at the broad expanse of blue sky, patched by fluffy white clouds coasting along in the breeze. She edged her gaze around, unsure whether she had heard him correctly. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do you know where I can find Brianna of Sefanoc?’ he repeated, slowly, witheringly, as if she were a halfwit.
Brianna’s mouth set in an open jeer. ‘You had better ask your friend, Count John. I’ve never heard of her.’ Moving towards William, she sucked in her breath at the painful stiffness developing in her body, keeping her frame rigid, stalking off in the opposite direction to Sefanoc, back to the farm. She didn’t look back.
‘Oh, mother of God, child, what in Heaven’s name happened to you?’ Alys emerged from the kitchen area that led off the entrance hall, wiping her hands on a linen cloth, as Brianna burst through the main door, shutting it firmly behind her, leaning her back against the solid oak panels, as if in confirmation of her actions.
‘They were waiting for me, Alys, Count John’s men! On the way back from the farm.’ The explanation emerged in a rush; reaching up, rising on the balls of her feet, she shot the top bolt into its hasp, then repeated the action with the middle and bottom bolts.
‘There.’ She turned triumphantly to Alys. ‘That should keep them out.’ And him, if he ever found her, she added silently. Loosening the leather laces that closed the slash neck of her cape, she pulled it off, over her head. Her shimmering plaits, half-unravelled, swung down to her waist, the top of her head still damp from her dunking.
The linen towel dropped to the stone floor, drifting noiselessly to the flagstones. ‘Your face, Brianna.’ Alys raised her palms to her own cheeks. ‘Your face.’ She moved forwards in the gloom of the entrance hall, backlit by the torchlight flaming from the kitchen, her arms outstretched in horror.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’ Her jaw throbbed persistently with a bruised heat as Brianna hung her cape on a wooden peg near the door. A slick of fear coated her veins. What would have happened today, if that man, that stranger in black and silver, hadn’t come along? Did those men have orders from Count John to finish her off, to remove her, believing Hugh would never return? With no other living relative, with no one to ask questions as to her whereabouts, Count John would be able to grab the rich pastures of Sefanoc for his own.
‘Sit down, let me put something on it. Come, I’ve lit the fire in the hall.’ Alys pushed aside the small door set in the wooden panelling that screened the great hall from the front entrance.
‘Nay, there’s no time. I must fetch my bow and check the windows are secure in the solar.’
‘Are they coming after you?’ Alys questioned, a note of rising panic in her voice.
‘They might …’ Brianna paused, as a pair of silver eyes shone in her memory ‘… and possibly with reinforcements.’ Had she misjudged the man who had tried to help her? With her mind befuddled from the attack, she had been so convinced he was an ally of Count John, sent to try a different tack to convince her to marry. And yet … he had asked for her by name. Her face warmed at the memory of his protective bulk at her side; she placed flat palms to her cheeks, seeking to cool the twin flags of heat.
‘Oh, God save us.’ Alys clutched at her chest. ‘I wish the Lord Hugh had returned, or … or that we had a man about the house to defend us.’
‘We can defend ourselves, Alys!’ Brianna’s eyes flashed determination. ‘I will not let these men bully us … bully me.’ She yanked open the door into the great hall, heading for the solar at the opposite end of the house, and her bedchamber. She sighed; how tempting it would be to curl up beneath the bed furs at this very moment and sleep, sleep a deep dreamless sleep. But she strode on, her lips set in a tight line; she had to make certain the manor house was secure.
Alys touched her arm, halting her stride. ‘Brianna … my lady … you can’t keep going on like this … It’s too hard for you to do alone.’
‘I prefer to be alone, Alys, you know that.’
Brianna dropped her eyes, a silky curl of burnished hair looping over her cheek. Why did Alys constantly allude to her solitary life, her single status? Surely she, of all people, knew that Brianna could never be with a man, never trust a man, ever again? She drew in a deep breath, willing the faint tightness of panic in her chest to leave, to dissolve. This attack had frightened her, reminding her of that past she craved to forget. Clasping her hands together, she turned around, pulling her features into an expression, she hoped, of supreme confidence. ‘Alys, if there’s one good thing that came out of that ill-fated marriage, it was the ability to defend myself!’ She picked her skirts up to continue striding in the direction of the solar.
Alys nodded dubiously, her face stricken. Brianna never talked about her short marriage to Walter of Brinslow; all she knew was that the kind, happy girl who had left Sefanoc to wed had returned just six months later as a broken woman. Five winters on and Brianna had sprung back to her old self, although the scars of whatever that man had done to her still lingered, in the shadows behind her eyes, in certain mannerisms. It was why she had insisted that Hugh, before he left on the crusade, had taught her how to defend herself. Her gaze touched on Brianna, now hefting her unwieldy crossbow from the solar, her brows drawn together in concentration, trying to remember how to use the weapon. Both women deluded themselves, both knew that Hugh’s tuition was not enough. It could never be enough against Count John’s men.
The fine silver arc of a new moon hung low in the sky as Giseux approached Sefanoc. At least he hoped it was Sefanoc. The directions from the local people in the nearby town of Merleberge had been hazy, reluctant to divulge too much information to a stranger. It was only when he told them the purpose of his visit that they opened up, nodding and smiling at Lady Brianna’s name. It seemed that Hugh of Sefanoc’s sister was something of a heroine in these parts.
Over to his right, amidst the rustlings and twitterings of a forest, a vixen shrieked. Trees threw jerky angles up against the reddish streaks of the western sky, daylight fading rapidly. Under the trees, the light grew so dim that he dismounted, leading his horse along the barely visible track. As the cold mud seeped through the chainmail covering his feet, he regretted the haste with which he’d travelled to Merleberge. He hadn’t given himself time to change into civilian clothes; his full armour was designed for riding, not for walking any great distance. The smell of smoke mingled with the chill evening air, the fresh scent of burning apple wood wafting over him; he could see lights in the windows up ahead, an encouraging sign, flooding down to reveal the stone steps leading up to the wide front door on the first floor.
Something whistled past his ear, barely an inch away from the steel helmet protecting his head. In an instant he had drawn his sword and ducked behind a tree, all his instincts poised, alert. Near to the spot where he had been walking, a crossbow bolt, quiver still vibrating with the force of the shot, stuck into the mud where his feet had been.
A woman’s voice shouted down from the manor, across the darkness, ‘Go away!’ The clear, bell-like voice was delivered in an imperious high-handed tone.
Grimacing, he rested his back against the tree, stretching out the muscles in his long legs, easing out the tight spot on his upper thigh. He hadn’t anticipated any antagonism and, after the shenanigans with that peasant woman today, this hostile behaviour was unexpected and annoying. Pulling up the visor of his helmet, he inched his head round the ridged trunk to project his response towards the house. ‘My name is Giseux de St-Loup. I was told that Lady Brianna lives here. I need to see her, about her brother, Hugh.’ His powerful voice reverberated around the stillness of the forest, echoed up into the trees. Through the branches above his head, against the velvet nap of the sky, the evening star glowed, a diamond pinprick.
Silence.
Irritation rose in his gullet—what in the devil’s name was happening now? Sneaking another look round, he could see the silhouette of a woman at the upper window; to his surprise, he realised it was she that held the crossbow. He smiled to himself. She wouldn’t be so lucky with her shot the next time; ladies were not known for their prowess with weapons. Leaving his horse by the tree, he moved out into the open ground, covering the space between the manor and the forest with long-legged strides.
Another bolt flew through the air, thudded next to him, surprisingly close.
‘I told you to go away.’ The modulated tones assailed him from the window, cutting briskly through the night air.
Caught halfway in the open grassy area between the edge of the trees and the house, Giseux tilted his head towards the window. All he could see was the woman’s dark outline and the glint of metal from the crossbow cradled in her arms. ‘And I told you,’ he delivered the words slowly, patiently, ‘that I have come about Hugh of Sefanoc. He is very ill and needs to see his sister. So I suggest you stop playing games and let me in. You’re wasting precious time with this nonsense.’
At his back, an owl hooted, eerie, piercing.
‘I don’t believe you. It’s another trick.’
‘I have no idea to what you are referring.’ Giseux narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the lady’s face. ‘Hugh said you’d be like this; he said you’d ask for proof.’
‘Do you have any?’
Gisuex cleared his throat. ‘He said, “Remember Big Belly Oak”.’
He heard a gasp and what sounded like a rising sob. The figure retreated from the window, crying out an urgent command, before the iron bolts on the main door were drawn back. By the time the last one grated from its metal hasp, Giseux had sprinted to the top of the steps, was waiting when the door nudged slowly inwards.
‘Take me to Lady Brianna,’ he rapped out at the maidservant behind the door, giving her no more than a cursory glance. Yanking off his helmet, he pushed back his chainmail hood and shoved the unwieldy metal headgear into the servant’s hands. His shield slid to the floor in the process. ‘Here, take this.’
His gaze snagged.
He looked again, closer, scrutinising the pale oval face in the dimness of the entrance hall. Bright hair in plaits, translucent blue eyes, shoddy woollen dress. ‘You! It’s you!’ Big hands reached out, tapered fingers snaring her shoulders. ‘You little wretch! Why didn’t you tell me you worked for Lady Brianna? You’ve done her no favours by protecting her!’ In the corner of the entrance hall, another, older servant trembled, twisting her hands nervously, ineffectually, lined face taut with fright.
‘I don’t work for Lady Brianna …’ the girl replied softly. Her small hands clutched around his helmet, as if in support. The bruise at her jaw seemed to have spread, darkening to a frightening array of reddish-purple blotches.
‘You could have saved me a whole day of pointless riding about!’ he blazed at her. ‘Do you realise how much time I’ve wasted? Hugh, your lord, could be dead by now.’ The harsh words felt good on his tongue; he said them deliberately to frighten her, to make her pay for his whole tiresome, wasted day.
A deathly white washed her face. He wondered whether she might faint, the hold he maintained on her shoulders changing to one of support. ‘Tell me where he is,’ she whispered, raising her beautiful blue eyes to his. ‘I am Hugh’s sister. I am Brianna of Sefanoc.’
His wolfish look plundered her, dark brows drawing into a frown, eyes hardening to chips of granite. ‘You … are … Brianna?’ he pronounced slowly, incredulous, drawing his gaze at a leisurely pace from the top of her flame-coloured hair, over the tented and patched sack of her gown, to the tips of her toes. Her face grew hot beneath the deliberateness of his examination; she twisted away, all but throwing his helmet on to an oak bench in the entrance hall.
‘I realise I’m not quite as you would expect,’ Brianna explained briskly. In the confined space of the entrance hall, a restless energy rolled from him in waves, vital, pulsating, resonating through her body, making her shiver. The diamond chips of his eyes glittered in the sepulchral gloom.
‘You can say that again,’ he murmured. The luminous quality of her skin gleamed from the shadows. His fingers tingled, itched to touch, to test the alluring softness, and he frowned.
‘I had to help out with the milking this morning, hence the clothes.’
‘Help with the milking? Surely you have servants to do such work?’ Giseux threw a penetrating glance over at Alys, who quailed visibly into the corner.
Brianna shook her head faintly, dismissing the subject; she had no wish to discuss her domestic arrangements with a complete stranger. She reached out her hand to touch Giseux’s arm, then obviously thought better of it, withdrawing her hand quickly. ‘Tell me about Hugh, please. I have spent so many days waiting, wondering. I can’t believe he’s still alive.’
Giseux sincerely hoped that he was. The loose sleeve of her gown had slipped back when she reached up as if to touch him; the skin of her wrist was limpid, fragile as parchment, covered with a network of blue veins; her fingernails were pale pink, delicate shells, against the raw skin of her work-roughened fingers. He swallowed, a sudden dryness catching his throat.
‘Are you going to let me in?’ He glanced archly at the sheathed knife in her belt. ‘Or am I still considered a danger?’
He saw her take a deep, shuddering breath, saw the sheer exhaustion in her eyes. The tip of her tongue licked nervously at the rose-bud fullness of her bottom
lip.
‘Am I a danger?’ he repeated. The low, husky tones enveloped her. An odd, teetering sensation spiralled in her belly, coiling slowly, blossoming.
‘No,’ she croaked. Indecision swamped her. She knew he had been sent by Hugh; how else would he have known of the ‘Big Belly Oak’ of their childhood, their secret hiding place? She looped her arms defensively across her stomach. There was something else about this man that caused every last nerve ending in her body to dance with … Was it fear? She couldn’t be certain, at a loss to identify the feeling.
‘Follow me.’ Her lips compressed as she grasped the spitting torch proffered by Alys, holding the guttering flame aloft, showing the way.
He followed the rigid line of Brianna’s back into the great hall, enjoying the tempting sway of her hips as they brushed against the inside of her gown. Who would have thought that she could be Hugh’s sister, dressed in those torn, work-stained garments, her rippling coppery hair, like beech leaves in autumn, falling down past her waist in simple braids? Hugh of Sefanoc never wasted the slightest opportunity to boast about the substantial income he gained from his estates, from the farming as well as the forest. So why was his sister dressed in rags, working her fingers to the bone, courting the violent attentions of Count John’s men?
Slinging the torch into an iron ring alongside the imposing stone fireplace, Brianna gestured abruptly to a high-backed armchair. Giseux folded his large frame gratefully into the hard wooden seat; after a day in the saddle it felt good, despite the inflexibility of his armour. He glanced at the fire, a pathetic business made up of a few damp sticks, spitting and smouldering in the enormous grate. The tiny heat thrown out by the feeble flames made little impact on the cavernous space; against the skin of his face, Giseux could feel the penetrating cold radiating out from the grey-stone walls. Up above him, the high ceiling was constructed of thick oak trusses, huge arches that spanned the length of the hall. The high windows had been shuttered against the winter weather, although he doubted it made much difference to the inside temperature.
‘Tell me! Tell me how Hugh is, please!’ Brianna rested one hand on the stone mantel to steady herself. She wanted to lay her head against the carved stone and weep tears of sheer gratitude, but she would be damned if she showed any further weakness before this dark stranger. Why, oh, why did it have to be him to bring the news? The man who had witnessed her humiliation by Count John’s men, who had moved too close in his efforts to help her; even now, she could feel the burning imprint of his fingers from this morning. Her heart skittered.
Giseux sprawled back in the chair, stretching out his legs, his toes almost touching Brianna’s hem. The dancing flames from the torchlight turned the brilliant colour of her hair to burnished gold. A wry smile crooked his lips as she twitched her skirts away from his encroaching feet, her nose crinkling a little in distaste at his nearness.
‘Hugh is at my parents’ castle, near Winchester,’ Giseux explained. ‘His sickness began as we waited for the ships to bring us back to England. He is very ill, sometimes delirious with fever, but always, always, asking for you.’
Brianna placed her palms flat over her face, physically trying to stop the tears from running down, emotion clawing in her belly. If only she’d known this morning, she would be with Hugh by now. ‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’ she blurted out, her voice holding the sting of accusation, ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were this morning, why you were here?’ She flung herself into the chair opposite him, perching on the edge, scuffed leather boots poking out from beneath her sagging hemline.
‘If I remember rightly, it was you who denied all knowledge of Brianna of Sefanoc,’ he replied scornfully. ‘If you hadn’t, we would be with him now.’
‘Then let’s go!’ She sprang out of the seat, headed towards the solar. ‘All I need is my cloak.’
Giseux’s deep voice halted her nimble stride. ‘Lady, if you think I’m travelling anywhere tonight, then think again. I need food and I need some sleep before I climb into that saddle once more.’
‘But Hugh …?’
‘… is in safe hands,’ he finished the sentence for her. He was reluctant to point out that if Hugh were dead now, then one night would make no difference. ‘We’ll ride on the morrow, in daylight. It’ll be safer and we’ll be able to see our way, which will make the journey quicker.’
Brianna frowned, spinning back on the ball of one foot to face him, bridling beneath his authoritative manner, his swift decision-making. ‘That may be so, my lord, but I wish to see my brother now.’ Who did he think he was, to give her orders so? She was used to making up her own mind, forging her own decisions; after her marriage to Walter, she had promised herself that, at least. ‘I thank you, my lord, for bringing the message about my brother; you are welcome to some food and to spend the night here.’ Her tone was formal, dismissive. ‘I will fetch you something to eat right now.’
‘Hold.’ As she passed his chair, he snagged her hand in one large chainmail glove. The creased leather on the underside pressed into her palm.
‘Let me go.’ Brianna made an effort to deliver the words calmly, waiting for the familiar crawl of fear in her chest, bracing her body against the inevitable sickening panic she experienced when any man came too close. Her pulse skipped, her heart rate accelerating, but not in any way she remembered. She frowned; something was not right.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. His voice had a lilting, liquid quality.
‘I told you, to fetch some food.’ She tugged at her hand; his strong fingers tightened. Annoyed, she pressed her lips together, staring steadfastly away from his penetrating gaze.
‘You feed me lies, my lady, I can see it in your face,’ his silky tones accused her. ‘You’re planning to go to him, aren’t you? Whether I agree to accompany you or
not.’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It is my business to deliver you safely. Do you think Hugh would ever forgive me if some harm came to you on the journey? He asked me to escort you and escort you I will.’ He dropped her hand.
‘Then go with me now.’ She cradled her released fingers, missing the warmth of his touch. What was the matter with her?
‘It’s not possible,’ Giseux replied firmly, steel threading his voice. Since when had women become so outspoken? He could travel if he wanted to; he could ride for days on an empty stomach with little sleep, but something in her manner made him want to resist, to squash her a little.
‘All right, we’ll leave tomorrow,’ she replied huffily, flouncing off to the kitchen. Leaning back in the chair, Giseux smiled. He suspected that he would have a battle on his hands, a battle that he would inevitably win. Oddly, he relished the thought.
Chapter Three
‘Oh, my lady, what in Heaven’s name are we going to feed him?’ Alys knotted her fingers together endlessly, running helpless eyes along the wide empty shelves lining the kitchen.
‘Nothing, if I had my way.’ Brianna braced her hands flat against the well-scrubbed planks of the kitchen table, trying to assemble her angry, scattered thoughts. Her eyes snapped over to Alys, fiery blue. ‘The man’s a complete oaf! Did you hear what he said to me? Hugh’s alive and he refuses to take me to him! He wants to wait … wait until tomorrow morning. Can you believe it?’
Alys hurried over to her, plucked at Brianna’s sleeve. ‘Keep your voice down, he’ll hear you!’ The thin skin of her face stretched over high cheekbones, mottled pink. She darted a nervous glance towards the open kitchen door.
‘What do I care?’ Brianna pushed her body upright, whipping around to face the door, wanting Giseux to burst through, wanting to challenge him. ‘He knows what I think.’
‘My lady, calm down,’ Alys pleaded, patting feebly at Brianna’s arm. ‘Come, let’s fetch him some food—what about the stew?’
Alys’s question forced her mind to concentrate. She considered the stew that she and her maidservant had been eking out for the last week: tough chicken legs occasionally enlivened with a few chewy winter greens. ‘Nay, too good for him,’ she pronounced, instead extracting a dry heel of bread from an earthenware pot, plonking it on a pewter plate. ‘There, that should
do.’
‘He’s a lord, Brianna,’ Alys whispered, ‘a nobleman. We can’t feed him on stale bread.’
‘I suppose he could have some cheese,’ Brianna conceded, grudgingly. She unwrapped a long piece of damp muslin from a round of soft cheese, fresh and crumbly.
‘And some mead.’ Alys dipped a pewter tankard into an iron-girded cask of the amber liquid, setting it down on the tray next to the plate.
‘Shall I take it?’ the maidservant offered reluctantly.
Brianna smiled. ‘Nay, let me. And he’d better appreciate it.’
Alys raised her eyes to Heaven.
Shouldering her way awkwardly back through the door to the great hall, carrying the tray, Brianna decided her main aim was to encourage Giseux, after he had eaten, to retire for the night. Alys had already prepared the guest chamber, accessed by a spiral flight of stairs from the entrance hall. Once he was asleep, it would leave the way clear for her to saddle up her horse and ride to Winchester.
Giseux’s legs gleamed in their metallic skin, his bulging calf muscles clearly visible beneath the chainmail as Brianna advanced towards the chair. He’d removed his chainmail gloves and they lay on the floor. She crashed the tray down ungratefully on the rickety, three-legged table at his elbow. ‘Here you are, my lord.’ Her bravado quailed as his eyes, midnight-fringed, devoured her with a single sweep.
‘What did those men want with you this morning?’ he demanded, ignoring the pewter plate at his side.
‘I … er …’ She hesitated, sweeping over to the shutters, checking the latches were secure, away from his heated perusal.
‘What did they want with you?’ Her spine shivered beneath the low rumble of his voice.
The metal hasp of the shutters felt cool beneath her fingers; she yearned to press her flaming face against the solid wood, to regain some solidity, some stability in her current situation.
‘Count John’s men?’ Brianna tried to keep her voice light, even. She couldn’t allow this man to know how much their beating had affected her. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she moved back to the fireside, perched tentatively in the seat opposite Giseux.
He bit into a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, silent.
Brianna shifted uncomfortably, stared at the floor, knowing he was waiting for an answer. ‘Count John wants me to marry one of his noblemen, so that Sefanoc comes within his jurisdiction. He sent his soldiers to persuade me.’
‘Their methods of persuasion leave a lot to be desired,’ he murmured, taking a swig of mead, running the tip of his tongue along the generous curve of his bottom lip to catch a wayward drip.
Brianna touched one finger to her throbbing jaw. ‘That’s why bringing Hugh home to Sefanoc is so important,’ she offered, tentatively. ‘When Count John sees he’s alive, well, then they’ll stop tormenting me.’
‘Then it’s fortunate he is home.’ Giseux steepled his fingers in front of his chest. ‘Otherwise you might have ended up in a marriage against your will.’
Her expression was bleak. ‘It would never happen; I told you before, I would rather die than have that happen again.’
His eyes flicked up at her final word; she clapped her hands to her mouth, startled, dismayed at her stupid mistake. Again. The word that gave away her past.
‘Again?’ Giseux queried, adjusting his position to lean forwards, elbows resting on his knees.
She sprang from her seat, mouth trembling, flustered, sweat clagging her palms. ‘You need to finish your meal,’ she announced briskly, ‘and I must change out of these clothes. Please excuse me.’
So that was it, Giseux mused idly, as he watched the flick of her skirt, the shining coin of her hair disappear through a door at the end of the great hall. She had been married before, and not happily, judging from her reaction to his question. Where was her husband now? Had she finished him off with her crossbow, with a swipe from the knife at her belt? His lips twitched at the thought—she was perfectly capable. In fact, he doubted he had met another woman who fought with such drive, such ferocity, to hold on to the things she held most dear. It appeared she was paying a high price.
Seizing the mud-encrusted hem of her loose peasant gown, Brianna struggled with the coarse material to pull it over her head. Why, why on earth had she said such a stupid thing? And to him, of all people: a complete stranger! Blood bolted through her veins, rattling her; she forced herself to breathe more slowly, to calm down. The sooner she was away from him, the better. Leaving her chemise and woollen stockings on, and still wearing her stout leather boots, Brianna moved to the oak coffer at the foot of the bed. The carved lid opened with a protesting creak as she riffled inside. She only had two suitable gowns and one, she knew, had a long rip along a seam that she had been meaning to repair. The green wool gown was presentable, if a little threadbare. She settled the material over her head, smelling the dried lavender that Alys placed in the oak coffers every year to keep the clothes sweet. As the folds fell down about her shoulders, the wool prickled a little against her linen chemise, damp from her earlier dunking.
Pushing her head through the round slash neck, her fingers brushed against the silver embroidery that decorated the collar, the design raised, intricate. Her mother had done this, her beautiful mother who had spent many hours working her fine needlework on all the family’s clothes. Brianna could see her now, sitting by the south window in the solar, the bright sunlight picking up the shining thread on her lap, the gold filaments in her burnished hair. Her breath emerged in a long, stuttering sigh. How she wished her parents could be here now, instead of succumbing to that horrendous, debilitating illness. They would be proud of her, she hoped, proud of the way she had kept the estate going in Hugh’s absence, proud of the way she had scrimped and saved, so that there was something of worth, something of value for him to come home to. How could that man be so insensitive as to keep her from her brother, when she had waited for so long for him to return?
She smoothed the skirts of the gown down over her thighs, shaking out the creases and bringing in the waist with a woven girdle that settled over her slim hips. The woodenness of her fingers vexed her as she fumbled with the intricate ties of the belt. She placed her knife-belt and cloak across the bed, not wanting to alert Giseux’s suspicions if she carried them out to the great hall now. Soon enough she and Alys would have him settled in the guest chamber and she would be able to slip away. Knotting her long braids together to form a loose bun, she jabbed the vibrant mass with several long hairpins in an effort to secure it, before covering her head with a gauzy veil. This she jammed into place with a golden circlet, the only one she hadn’t sold, the metal cold and tight against her forehead.
She padded on silent feet towards the door, the hem of her gown a muffled whisper against the wide elm floorboards. Clicking the latch open, Brianna drew her spine up, preparing to face her rescuer once more.
Giseux’s substantial frame spread out from the chair, his whole body polished in the light of the feeble fire. One arm hung out over the armrest, strong, tapered fingers suspended in mid-air.
He was asleep.
A curious flickering curled around her stomach, subtle, delicious, as she studied the man. For the first time she noticed the grey shadows beneath his eyes, hollows of smudged ash, crinkled lines fanning out from the corners. A hot, heavy sensation speared her feet to the floor; it was as if she were mesmerised. He looked uncomfortable, his big frame wedged into the narrow corner of the chair, and, with a rush of realisation, Brianna knew she should have offered him some of her brother’s clothes. Hugh could never wait to dispense with his armour once he arrived home, always complaining how intolerable it was.
His chest rose and fell steadily, slowly, evidence of a deep sleep, the wool of his surcoat flattening taut over his chest and stomach, revealing the solid indentations of his muscles. He had loosened the leather laces that held together the slash neck of his hauberk; as the chainmail edges gaped, they revealed the strong, corded muscles of his neck, the tanned hollow of his throat. Brianna bit her lip; the temptation to touch, to test the honed perfection of his skin, was overwhelming. Her fingers burned with awareness.
She twisted her hands together, agitated, trying to dispel the tantalising craving, annoyed by her strange reaction to him. Was she in her right mind? Had the attack today left her so befuddled that she had forgotten her lonely path in life? Remember Walter, she told herself sternly, remember Walter controlling her to the point where she had wanted to scream in frustration, trapped in that bitter, loveless marriage. It had become his main amusement, deciding what she ate, what she wore, what she did all day, so that at some point in that hideous time, she truly believed she was losing the ability to think for herself. And she was not about to let that happen again.
Whisking back to her chamber, Brianna snatched up her cloak and knife-belt from the bed. Her mind rattled with details; she had to seize her chance to travel to Winchester now, whilst Giseux slept. As she tiptoed past him, a sudden nausea roiled in her belly at her daring and she trembled with the horrible notion of him leaping up suddenly, catching her red-handed. He could not, must not, catch her. She kept her gaze pinned to the door at the far end of the great hall, taking deliberate, considered steps, picking up her hem so she didn’t trip. Every muscle in her body strained, held taut in the moment, alert to the slightest movement, the slightest sound from the chair. After what seemed like an eternity, her hand lifted the latch and she slipped into the entrance hall like a ghost, closing the door behind her. Her suppressed breath released; she sagged against the wall in relief.
Alys emerged from the stair that led to the guest chamber above the kitchens, eyes wide in her pale, wizened face. ‘My lady? What’s happening?’ she whispered, frowning at Brianna’s change of clothes, her cloak.
‘Shh.’ Brianna put a finger to her lips, seizing the maidservant by the hand and pulling her through the main entrance door, out, out into the frosty air, down the steps, down to the vaulted stables below the first floor. The smell of crushed straw, of faint, stale horse filled the air.
‘Oh, mistress, nay, you cannot!’ In the white slant of moonlight that poured through the archway into the stables, Alys brought her gnarled, arthritic hands to sunken cheeks when Brianna told her of her plans.
‘It’s the only way,’ Brianna announced briskly, heart knocking against her chest, the image of the big man sprawled upstairs, asleep, tripping dangerously around the edges of her consciousness.
‘At least let me come with you, mistress.’
In the startling brightness of the moon, Alys suddenly looked old, her gaunt frame bent over with exhaustion. Guilt surged through Brianna and she placed two hands on Alys’s shoulders. ‘Nay, Alys, I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve put up with so much from me, you need to rest now. Go to bed, sleep. Lord Giseux can take care of himself.’
‘But …?’
‘Winchester is not above twenty miles from here … I know the way.’ Well, most of it, Brianna added silently.
‘But how will you travel?’ Alys’s gaze swept the empty stable. ‘We have no horses left to ride.’
Brianna grinned, the metal bosses on her cloak glinting in the dim light. ‘Aye, we don’t,’ she pointed out towards to fringes of the forest, where Giseux’s large destrier was patiently cropping the grass, the reins conveniently looped around a low branch, ‘but he does.’
It was the cold that finally woke him, digging into his bones like icy fingers, relentlessly, endlessly, so at last after a great deal of tossing and turning and trying to will his exhausted body back to sleep, Giseux reluctantly opened his eyes. The barest trickle of moonlight squeezed through the gaps in the long wooden shutters, enough to see by. The fire had burnt out, but not long ago, ashes smouldering dismally in the grate.
The chair cradled his body at a stiff, unyielding angle, compressing his bones. His right hand had gone numb; he gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers as the blood returned with a painful prickling. Shaking off the shrouds of sleep, his mind jumped into action, remembering, remembering the task that Hugh had set him. He recalled the spark of determination in Lady Brianna’s eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth when he had informed her that they would not leave until morning.
Propelling himself from the chair, he strode over to the door of the solar, wrenching the door open. In normal circumstances, he probably would have knocked, but up to this point everything about Lady Brianna had been anything but normal. He knew, he just knew, before he’d even looked at the bed and saw that the furs lay flat, unused, that she had gone. Little witch! He had offered to come to Sefanoc as a favour to Hugh; in reality it was turning out to be an ordeal.
Stepping over to the bed, he hauled the covers back; the spotless, empty white sheet shone back at him, the slight indentation in the mattress where she would have slept mocking him. The scent of crushed lavender rose from the bedlinens, delicious, seductive, reminding him of those long, hot summers in Poitiers, and his heart jerked in memory. That all seemed so long ago now.
A small sound on the other side of the bed caught his attention.
‘She’s not here, my lord.’ Alys sat up on low pallet bed, clutching the covers to her bony chest. Her frizzled hair stuck out from her head like grey lace. Her veins traced blue ridges on the backs of her hands.
‘I can see that,’ Giseux replied bluntly, his cheeks sculptured hollows in the sepulchral light. ‘And against my better judgement I’m about to go after her.’
Big fat tears welled up in the maidservant’s eyes. ‘Oh, my lord, don’t be too harsh on her.’
‘Why on earth not?’ he growled back. ‘The woman’s a prize fool, putting herself at risk.’
‘She hasn’t seen Hugh for such a long time. Once she has a plan in her head …’ Alys trailed off miserably, her voice rising on a half-sob.
‘She’s difficult to rein in, I can see that,’ Giseux replied, grimacing. ‘When did she leave?’
‘Not long after you fell asleep, my lord.’
‘She hasn’t had much of a head start.’ He thought of the dying embers in the fireplace, calculating rapidly. ‘What does she ride … a palfrey? She wouldn’t go above a trot on one of those. I’ll easily catch her up.’
The maidservant was silent, staring at him like a ghost, her knotted fingers still clutching the coverlet against her. ‘She … she took your horse, my lord.’
Through the dark tracery of bare branches, the moon appeared sporadically, shifting behind veils of cloud, dribbling a faint light down to the forest floor. A rising breeze sifted through the trees, a sibilant sound that spoke of the old stories surrounding the forest of Sefanoc, the drifting ghosts. The woods held little mystery for Brianna; she had grown up in this place, had laughed and played through the woodland with Hugh. She felt no fear as the giant skeletal shapes of the trees rose up before her, no fear as she glimpsed the deep pools silvered by the light of the moon and heard the twitterings and rustlings of the animals in the undergrowth. Nay, the forest did not scare her. But being caught by Lord Giseux de St-Loup did.
In despair, she kicked the rounded flanks of the horse beneath her once more. In her haste to leave for Winchester, she had failed to adjust the stirrups to the length of her leg and now they bumped uselessly against the horse’s sides, polished metal hoops shining in the darkness. Even without the use of the stirrups, she considered herself to be an excellent horsewoman, but this animal simply refused to move at anything greater than a sporadic, half-hearted trot! Really, it was as if his master was controlling him from afar!
All of a sudden, the animal stopped, pointed ears moving round as if to locate a sound. And then she heard it—a shout on the wind. She failed to decipher the words, but she knew, knew it was him. Knuckles rounding tautly on the reins, her heart lodged in her throat—how had he managed to catch up with her so quickly? The horse begun to turn in response to his master’s voice, Brianna yanking desperately on the reins to point his head back in the right direction, but to no avail. The horse turned abruptly in the narrow, muddy track, almost throwing her off in its excitement. In the last moment before the horse took off, Brianna managed to throw her leg over the horse’s neck and slip in a flurry of skirts to the ground.
Head held high, she stalked forwards, marching purposefully, swiftly, along the lane towards Winchester, wrapping her woollen cloak firmly around her. She could have run to hide in the darkness of the forest, but what would that achieve? He would surely find her—his face held a lean, hunting expression, that of a predator. Moments later, the sound of galloping hooves thumped up behind her. Her heart plummeted, trickles of fear stinging her blood.
‘Lady Brianna!’ Giseux bellowed. The words rained down on her back as if they were physical blows and she hunched over, chest thudding painfully. Don’t cower like a guilty thief, she told herself. Face him! Dragging herself up to her full height, spine straight and rigid, she spun around, the toe of her sturdy leather boot sinking into soft rotting leaves beneath her foot.
Giseux wore no helmet; his hair stuck up in rough spikes. His eyes, sparking anger, glimmered down over her. Despite her determined demeanour, she hoped that a great crevasse would open up beneath him and swallow him up.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ The roughness of his tone cut into her. His face glimmered with a sheen of sweat: he must have run to catch up with her before his horse turned back.
‘You know what I am doing.’ Not wanting to meet his eyes, to admit that she had defied his orders, Brianna stared mutinously at his mail-covered foot, stuck in the stirrup on a level with her chest, the gleaming armour dulled with spots of mud.
‘I told you to wait until morning, then I would have escorted you.’ His voice was low, level, but she detected a steely thread of exasperation winding through. The strengthening breeze stirred the wayward strands of his hair, making him appear more tousled … more devastating, she thought suddenly, a lump in her throat.
‘I know the way,’ she replied, truculently. Tilting her head to one side, she crossed her arms across her chest, a defiant gesture. In the shifting moonlight, her copper-coloured hair faded to a pale silk, loose strands drifting treacherously down from beneath her veil.
‘It’s not a question of whether you know the way or not,’ he replied tersely, ‘but the fact that you’re a woman. No noblewoman goes out unescorted—it’s utter madness.’
Brianna pushed the white froth of her veil back over her shoulder. ‘Since Hugh went away, I have had little choice in the matter,’ she replied practically, bending her gaze to his horse’s flank. Beneath the animal’s shining coat, a pulse throbbed near the surface, the beat regular and strong.
‘Up to now, maybe not,’ he agreed, ‘but you knew I would escort you to Winchester and you deliberately defied me.’
She jerked her chin up, eyes flashing fire at his chastisement. ‘I wanted to get to Hugh—I haven’t seen him for three years! Surely you can understand that?’
Aye, he could. He understood her need, her desire to be with her brother, especially after her harassment from Count John’s men. He suspected the beating he had witnessed today was one of many.
‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘who are you to order me about? You are not my lord, or my master. I can do what I want, go where I want. It’s my choice.’
In the shadows of the forest, the silver embroidery along the hem of his tunic twinkled like starlight. ‘So you do exactly as you please, without any consideration for others.’
Why, he made her sound like a spoiled brat! ‘It’s not
like that!’
‘How do you think Hugh would feel if something had happened to you?’
‘I can take care of myself!’
‘Hah! Like you took care of yourself this morning?’ he growled down derisively. The moonlight turned the ruffled strands of his hair to gold. ‘If I hadn’t come along when I did …’
She shrugged her shoulders, trying to suppress the doubt that mired her chest. ‘Those men are cowards … Lord Fulke is a coward! They would have left me alone soon enough. You, coming along like that, would have made no difference.’
‘Fighting words, my lady! Yet I suspect even you know that you lie to yourself. A woman alone is vulnerable, especially one who is stupid enough to believe she can best a man!’ She reminded him of a wild animal, cornered and vulnerable, the display of viciousness masking its puny strength.
‘I can—Hugh taught me how to use the crossbow … and the knife!’ The pitch of her words notched upwards, emerging in a spiral of rising anger and, yes, fear as well. How dare he challenge her methods of self-preservation, her hard-won skill? Instinctively her fingers moved to the jewelled knife hilt on her belt.
Giseux’s sparkling grey eyes honed in on her movement, his mouth twisting to a derogatory sneer. ‘That knife is more a hindrance than a help; it can so easily be wrested from your hands and turned against you. You would be better off not having it at all.’ The horse sidled beneath him; his big thigh muscles tensed as he maintained his upright position on the animal.
Hugh had given her the knife, before he went away. It was he who had taught her to use it properly, even though her brother could only guess at what she had experienced at the hands of her husband. She had told Hugh the barest details of her ordeal, not wanting to give voice to her time with Walter, not even with her brother. This knife, its heavy weight bumping against her hip, made her feel safe; now this man, this stranger, had the temerity to undermine its power!
‘You have no idea of what you are talking about!’ she flared up at him, long eyelashes fanning out around her blue eyes. ‘You scarce know me, yet you criticise and condemn me! How dare you?’
In a single, graceful movement he slid down from the horse, from that treacherous animal that had refused to move faster than a snail for her, and stood before her, his angled face leaning down into hers. ‘You’re living in a dream world, thinking you can protect yourself with that blade.’ He was so close that he stood within the folds of her skirts.
Instinctively, she backed away, throwing back the sides of her cloak as her fingers tightened around the hilt, sliding the knife from the leather scabbard. His arm flashed out, a lightning speed honed from years of fighting, muscular fingers upon hers, crushing, squeezing. An intense pain shot through her wrist, the knife slipping from her weakened grip. ‘You’re not being fair …’ she gasped as it fell. Giseux’s quicksilver reflex snared the blade as it flew downwards; in a trice, he turned the gleaming point, the blade a hairbreadth away from her frantically beating heart. For an endless moment they stood there, tense, taut, breathing rapidly, the moon highlighting the stillness of their bodies.
‘See how easy it was?’ His voice looped over her, dry, taunting. His hulking frame loomed so close that she caught the scent of him, a tantalising mix of spice and woodsmoke. A surge of adrenalin pulsed through her, exciting, wicked. She stepped backwards, appalled at the speed of the manoeuvre, appalled by his glittering proximity, then realised she could go no further, her heel kicking uncomfortably against the nubbled back of a trunk. Above them, an owl hooted, its call eerie within the confines of the trees.
‘Give me my knife back!’ Her voice, brittle, trembled with confusion. Palms pressed against the immovable oak, her slender body felt exposed to him, vulnerable. ‘I should have shot you when I had the chance!’
He laughed, a short bark of sound, teeth white in the shadowed tan of his face, flipping the knife back so that she could take the jewelled hilt. ‘Death by crossbow might have been preferable to escorting you.’
Brianna glared at him, hostile, stabbing the blade back in its sheath. ‘I’m not going back to Sefanoc with you,’ she announced firmly. ‘I’m carrying on to Winchester, whether you like it or not. You can’t make me go back with you.’
Giseux’s knee brushed against her leg; she flinched at the contact. His voice, when it came, was low, slipping velvet. ‘I can make you do anything I want.’ His eyes bored into hers, darkening gimlets of granite. ‘Don’t kid yourself that I, or any other man for that matter, could not … it’s dangerous to think like that.’
‘I’ve managed up to now,’ she spat back weakly. ‘And I’m still not going back with you.’
Giseux sighed. The woman was a complete fool. Of course he could make her return to Sefanoc—he could simply grab her spindly frame and dump her on his horse, kicking and screaming. Surely she realised that? He was twice the size of her, with muscle power to match. But he was awake now, and in no mood to wrangle any longer. Turning away, he walked over to his destrier, tightening the girth, before throwing himself up into the saddle. ‘Mount up,’ he ordered, kicking the shining stirrup free from his booted foot.
‘Wh-what?’ She stared up at him aghast. Vivid images piled chaotically into her brain, images of herself tucked up comfortably in the arms of Giseux, her back against his chest, her arms cradled within his. No! She couldn’t do it! ‘I can’t!’
‘You seem to manage perfectly well when you stole my horse.’ He stared down haughtily at her. Beneath him, his horse pawed the ground, dry leaves rustling against its hoof.
‘I borrowed your horse,’ she corrected him. ‘Not that it helped much; he refused to move faster than an ambling walk.’
‘He’s trained only to respond to me,’ he replied, disparagingly, holding out his hand towards her. ‘Now, come on, mount up.’
This is wrong, she thought, as she grasped his hand and stuck her slender foot in the stirrup. A quivering coil of excitement licked along her veins as he hoisted her in front of him; she bounced up as if she weighed nothing. Her hips bumped back uncomfortably into the edge of the leather saddle; she scissored one leg over the horse’s neck to ride astride. Leaning forwards, she grabbed a bunch of mane between her fists to maintain her balance.
‘Lean back.’ It was a command, not a request. His warm breath puffed over her veil; the material wafted against the nape of her neck making her shiver at the close contact. ‘At the speed we’ll be going, you’ll fall off. Lean back.’ His repeated order was terse, clipped.
I’m doing this for Hugh, she reminded herself over and over again as she moved gingerly against the solid wall of chest. Every nerve ending in her body sprang alive at the contact; beneath her layers of clothing, beneath the thick wool cloak, the gown of linen, she could feel his chest muscles ripple against her shoulder blades. The bunched muscle of his thighs pillowed her hips, rocking her intimately from side to side as the horse picked up speed. One arm snaked around her middle, the iron band yanking her more securely inwards as the horse kicked up clods of earth in its wake. She had never been this close to a man, this intimate, nay, not even with Walter; what she did now went against every promise she had made herself when she had left that horrible man. Against all inclination, she was thrown back into him, again and again. Brianna pressed her eyes together in shame, cheeks lit with flags of red.
The maid felt so fragile within his arms, her slim frame light against his chest, thought Giseux. Her appearance belied her inner strength, the innate courage that flowed within her. Like a delicate flower stem rocked by a fierce breeze, it would take a great deal to break her. He sensed she had come close that morning, that he had witnessed her teetering on the edge of total fear, of utter desolation. When those men had laid into her she had fought back like one possessed. Above the silken brush of her hair, his mouth tightened—no woman deserved such harsh treatment, whatever they had done, however they had behaved. Imperceptibly, his arms strengthened around her. Her shoulders rocked back into his chest; he grimaced as his body responded to the delicate press, the drifting lavender scent of her hair. He knew better than to become involved. Since that unspeakable time with Nadia, women, for him, had been reduced to a means of physical solace. He never asked their names in the darkness, never engaged in conversation. It suited him that way and, after what had happened, he preferred it. Without thinking, he rubbed at the aching muscle in his thigh, the single physical reminder of the woman he had loved in the East, the woman who had died trying to help him and his men. She had been on their side and had paid with her life for that loyalty. His wound was a small price in comparison, a continual ache eating into him, reminding him of his guilt, his culpability day after day. That, and the cavernous black void that was his heart.
Chapter Four
Once clear of the creaking depths of the forest and the maze of tracks within, the land rose in a series on undulating folds: gentle flat-topped plains, with pale tussocks of grass rippling violently in the wind, like hair under the water. The moon, its glowing orb travelling fast behind lacy wisps of cloud, bathed the landscape in a spectral light, accentuating the deep shadows, the brittle branches of a solitary hawthorn, contorted and bent over like an old man.
Giseux knew his location now, recognised the wide, open spaces of his childhood, or at least, his childhood before he had gone to the court of Queen Eleanor in Poitiers to train as a knight. In the forest, in the confusing bundle of trees and trackways, he had been reliant on the maid’s direction, silently following her outstretched pointing arm, until the trees grew thin on the outer boundaries.
Touching his heels to the horse’s flanks, he urged the animal up the steep sheep trail to gain the plateau above, his body leaning forwards with the altered gait. With the movement, Brianna shifted her position, arching her spine to break any contact with him. Giseux’s mouth twisted into a grimace. The stubborn little chit was doing her utmost to make this journey as awkward as possible, acting as if he were inflicted with some horrible disease, not doing her a favour.
Gaining the top of the plateau, saddle creaking under the combined weight of both riders, Giseux kicked the horse swiftly to a gallop. Now she had no choice, she had to lean back into him or risk falling off. Winding one arm tight in front of her, he winched her into his chest, sensing every muscle in her body protesting with rigid, outraged hostility. Even through the layers of her clothes, the fragile bones of her rib cage pressed against his forearm, her heart fluttering chaotically against his wrist, a moth’s wing of sensation. Despite her wilfulness towards him, she was afraid. The thought made him uncomfortable; she had no reason to be fearful of him.
The wind whipped around them as they rode, snaring Brianna’s skirts, flattening them over Giseux’s legs. It tore at her veil, sending the flimsy cloth flying across his face, in front of his eyes, blinding him. Hauling sharply on the reins, he clawed at the silk that filled his nose and covered his eyes, finally pulling it from his face and, in the same movement, tearing it from Brianna’s head. The gold circlet spun out into the darkness, landing with a soft rustle in one of the tussocks of grass.
‘My circlet!’ she gasped in surprise. Before he had time to anticipate her movement, she slid haphazardly, chaotically, from the horse as it slowed to a trot, stumbling down on to the uneven ground, tipping forwards on her hands and knees. Momentarily winded, she sat back on her heels on the damp grass, casting her eyes about for the sparkle of circlet. A raft of weariness flooded over her, sapping her strength.
‘Why didn’t you wait?’ Giseux shouted down at her, the fierce wind tugging at his words. ‘I would have fetched your circlet.’
Brianna smoothed one hand over the wrinkled puddle of her skirts, pins and needles beginning to prickle in her foot as she remained in the kneeling position, sitting back on her calves. She felt safer on the ground. The prolonged nearness of his body, the strong warmth of his chest at her back, had made her leap from the saddle at the slightest excuse. She chewed at her lip, frowning; already she missed the close contact of his hard frame. The cold wind whipped at her cloak, flipping back the dark edges to reveal the shimmer of lining.
‘We’re wasting time.’ Against the faded backdrop of the moon-soaked land, Giseux swung down from the horse, black surcoat glimmering with traces of silver flattened against his tall frame.
‘You’re the one who threw my veil away,’ she chided, clambering to her feet, grimacing as the blood rushed back into her toes. She wiggled her foot, trying to reassemble her scattered thoughts. When was the last time she had wanted to be this close to a man?
‘Only to prevent a more serious accident,’ Giseux reminded her. He scooped up the white scrap of silk, the loop of gold, tucking them against his chest, behind the surcoat. ‘I have them.’
Her mouth dropped open in surprise at his action and she held out her hand, skirts blowing out wildly behind her. The wind dragged at her hair, threatening to dislodge the silken bundle at the nape of her neck; hastily she lifted her fingers to push the pins back in. ‘I’ll have my veil now,’ she demanded, attempting to retain a modicum of control in the situation.
Giseux shook his head as he paced back to the horse. ‘Nay, it’s too windy; the same thing could happen again.’
She opened her mouth to disagree once more, but her words were abruptly cut off as he seized her waist and threw her easily up into the saddle. ‘You’re delaying things by arguing,’ he murmured, moving in behind her on the saddle. ‘I thought you were desperate to see your brother!’
‘I am,’ she squeaked back, trying to wriggle her hips forwards, away from him.
‘Then stop arguing with me, stop fighting me and let me take you there!’ he rumbled back at her. ‘And for God’s sake, stop wriggling!’
The castle at Sambourne loomed impressively out of the wide river valley, old stones draped in a drifting mist. Holding a flaming torch aloft, a soldier stepped forwards from the archway of the gatehouse, taking hold of Giseux’s bridle. He nodded, smiled, as he recognised the knight, standing aside to let them pass. After the flaring brightness of the torch, Brianna blinked rapidly in the darkness of the gatehouse, the horse’s hooves clattering loudly in the confined space.
‘My lady?’ Giseux was already standing on the greasy cobbles of the inner bailey, holding one hand out to her. Her natural instinct, the safer instinct, was to refuse his help, to slide to the ground unaided. ‘I …’ She hesitated.
‘Oh, come on,’ he berated her impatiently, diamond eyes challenging. ‘Accept my help for once; it would make your life much easier.’
She placed her hand in his, allowing her smaller fingers to be swallowed up by his burly grip as she swung her leg over. His other hand came around her waist, and, unbalanced, she fell against him, her cheek brushing fleetingly against his. A rush of awareness pulsed through her at the scrape of day-old beard against the soft swell of her cheek, the potent smell of him.
‘Here.’ Giseux dug her veil and circlet out from the depths of his surcoat and handed them to her.
Fingers trembling from the unexpected contact, she jammed the circlet on her head, securing the veil. ‘Take me to Hugh, please.’
The gold band gleamed lopsidedly at him. His fingers propelled towards her head, rustling against the silk as he adjusted the circlet, setting it straight. Unprepared for his gesture, Brianna flinched backwards, eyes wild with alarm.
Giseux frowned. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Brianna’s reaction had been exactly as if he had been going to hit her. ‘You need not to be frightened of me.’
Oh, but I am, thought Brianna dully, as she dogged the substantial breadth of his back up the stone steps to the main doorway. I am afraid … afraid of all men, and the things of which they are capable. That’s why I hide myself away from them, shun all acts of kindness, recoil against any tenderness. What happened in the past could not, would not happen again.
Giseux led her to Hugh’s chamber, high in the north turret of the castle, up three steep flights of a spiral staircase. He pushed against a heavily planked wooden door, stepping aside to allow her to precede him. As she crossed the threshold, a solid wall of heat hit her in the face. At first, she could see nothing, only the glow of coals from a charcoal brazier in the corner, throwing their reddish light along the oak-panelled wall. She searched the gloom, saw the bed, found her brother.
His head was cushioned on an enormous linen pillow, his hair matted, stuck to his scalp. His face was chalk-white, apart from two spots of vivid colour on his cheekbones, the skin grown thin and gaunt. Blood-encrusted scabs flecked his dry, cracked lips; beads of shiny perspiration peppered his forehead. A linen nightshirt covered his frame, his forearms and wrists protruding from the too-short sleeves, stretched on the fur coverlet, palms facing upwards. Every now and again, a spate of shivering seemed to take hold of him, like some unknown presence shaking his body like one possessed.
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Meriel Fuller
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: WOUNDED SOLDIER When he returns from the Crusades, battle-scarred and tortured by painful memories, it is only Count Giseux de St-Loup’s code of chivalry that sees him escorting a sharp-tongued spitfire of a lady on a quest to help her injured brother.WAYWARD LADY The beautiful Lady Brianna is fiercely independent, and finds his powerful presence disturbing. As the danger surrounding her grows deeper, Giseux is forced to extend his protection further than either of them ever wanted it to go…