Her Battle-Scarred Knight

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘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.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Shocked, Brianna’s hands flew to her face. She spun around to Giseux, seeking some comfort, some reassurance from this man who she had known but a day. But his profile was grim, his bleak expression trained on Hugh. With a supreme effort, she forced her wooden limbs to walk over to the bed, to take her brother’s hand. The slack muscles in his fingers curled loosely inwards. Panic threatened to bubble up within her—he could not die! She leaned closer to him, bending over his familiar face, hearing the faint trickle of breath emerge from his lips. Heat poured from him in rolling waves. Touching one hand to his forehead, her fingers sprang away, wet with sweat.

  ‘It’s far too hot in here!’ Her hand jerked back from his scorching skin. ‘No wonder he’s burning up.’ She sped to the window, hands fumbling with the iron latch that secured the wooden shutters, desperate to fill the room with fresh, cooling air. Giseux’s hand came over hers, stilling her fingers, pressing her palm into the angular contours of the latch.

  ‘Nay, the room needs to be hot. It sweats the fever out.’

  Her jaw brushed inadvertently against his upper arm as it stretched over her shoulder, and for one brief, insane moment she longed to rest her head against that strong rope of muscle, to gain some comfort from it. The metallic scales of his armour had been cool against her flushed skin.

  She pulled away, pulled her hand from beneath his, resentful of his nearness, of his intrusion into this reunion with her brother. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded, her voice churlish.

  ‘It’s a fever common to Crusaders, common to the Orient,’ Giseux replied patiently, moving over to Hugh. ‘I’ve seen it many times. Keep him warm, pile the covers high. He’ll try to throw them off, but you must keep putting them back.’ He poured a cup of amber liquid from an earthenware jug sitting on a three-legged table beside the bed. Perching alongside Hugh on the side of the bed, he slipped one arm gently behind his neck, lifting his lolling head. Brianna watched in relief as Hugh, his eyes firmly closed, swallowed some of the liquid, before Giseux laid him back down again. The simple act of kindness was so unexpected, so unusual in this arrogant man of war, that she caught herself staring in surprise.

  ‘What are you giving h
im?’ An enticing, unusual smell filled the room.

  Sparkling grey eyes moved over her. ‘Spices from the Orient mixed in with hot water and honey,’ he explained. ‘The Turkish people use it to quell their fevers.’

  Brianna moved to stand before him, the front panel of her skirt almost touching his knees. ‘I can look after him now,’ she said. One loop of golden-red hair had come adrift, curling down over her shoulder, softly gleaming in the ambient light.

  ‘Good,’ Giseux replied. He ran an impatient finger around the inside of the neck of his chainmail tunic. He’d worn his armour for so long that the metal was beginning to irritate his skin. ‘For I intend to sleep now, and sleep for a long time. There’s a bed made up for you, there, if you wish to sleep.’ He indicated a low pallet against one wall of the room, made up with fresh linens.

  ‘Thank you.’ She stared at the floor, unsure, or unwilling, to say the words that must be said. ‘And thank you for coming to fetch me. I’m sorry…’ She wanted to apologise for delaying them, for attacking him when she thought he was another of Count John’s men, coming to persecute her once more.

  He shook his head, his mouth set in a taut line. ‘Forget it,’ he replied tersely. ‘It’s in the past.’ He stood up suddenly from the bed, running one hand through his hair, tousling the pale brown strands. ‘It’s enough that you are here and caring for Hugh.’

  ‘Have you seen him yet?’ Jocelin, Earl of Sambourne, bounded up the steps to the high dais to join his wife for breakfast. Leaning down over the bright, golden head, he planted a light kiss on his wife’s cheek before throwing himself into the carved oak chair next to her. At nearly fifty winters, his lean, fit body seemed to contain an abundance of energy, evidenced in the graceful, athletic way that he moved, the keen sparkle in his dove-grey eyes.

  ‘He was asleep when I looked in on him earlier,’ Lady Mary replied. Next to her husband, she appeared delicate, willowy, her pale skin forming a dramatic contrast to his ruddy cheeks. She nibbled daintily on a bread roll. ‘He seemed completely exhausted.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, riding through the night! Can’t understand why he didn’t wait till daylight. Hugh wouldn’t have deteriorated that quickly.’ Jocelin speared a slice of roast chicken with his eating knife, placing it on his pewter plate with a freshly baked bread roll. The great hall was quiet at this time of the morning; the peasants who worked on the estate had eaten their food at a much earlier hour, whilst it was still dark. A few servants moved about in the lower part of the hall, collecting dirty dishes and sweeping the crumbs from the earlier breakfasts on to the floor.

  ‘He thought Hugh was about to die, Jocelin.’ Lady Mary laid a hand on her husband’s arm, the gemstone in her ring sparkling in a shaft of light pouring down from the upper windows. ‘It was vital that he brought the maid back as soon as possible. Oh, here he is now!’ She patted her plaited, coiled hair and rose to greet her son.

  Giseux stepped through the curtained doorway, pausing for a moment on the threshold before climbing the steps to the top table. He had only seen his parents’ home on occasional visits since he’d left for the French court over ten years ago. Vast, elaborate tapestries hung over the grey-stone walls, their colours vivid, lending a warmth and brightness to the high-ceilinged chamber. Shields interspersed the tapestries, carrying various coats-of-arms, each one different for every man in the family, so they could be easily identified in battle.

  ‘Oh, my son!’ His mother forged a nimble path between the chairs that ranked along the top table, reaching up to clasp him. ‘Now I can greet you properly!’ She had barely seen him when he had returned with Hugh, carrying the barely conscious knight up to bed, before leaving for Sefanoc.

  ‘Let me look at you.’ Linking her hands into her son’s, she took a step back, running her gaze from head to toe, noting the leanness of his jaw, the ranginess of his frame. There was something else that had changed, something she couldn’t as yet identify. A certain look, a fleeting shadow about the eyes, maybe? ‘You haven’t been eating enough!’ she chided him, flapping her hands, scolding lightly. ‘Come and sit here! I’ll move along.’

  ‘I was going to check on Hugh.’

  His mother shook her head. ‘No need. I looked in on him as I came down this morning. He’s sleeping peacefully; his breathing seems much easier.’

  ‘And…his sister?’

  Lady Mary arched one fair eyebrow at her son. ‘Why, she’s sleeping too! In her clothes, poor girl. I should have thought to put a nightgown out for her.’

  ‘I doubt she would have minded,’ Giseux murmured. Lady Brianna seemed eminently capable of dealing with the most demanding of situations; he doubted the lack of a nightgown would concern her one jot.

  His mother indicated that he should sit in her seat and shifted her plate along as Giseux threw his bulky frame into the chair, turning to shake his father’s hand.

  ‘Good to see you, my son!’ his father boomed, smiling. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Aye, it has,’ Giseux acknowledged. A servant struggled up to the table with a unwieldy cauldron of steaming porridge. His stomach growled as he watched his mother ladle a bowl out for him, pouring on rich cream and drizzling it with honey for sweetness. ‘Thank you.’ He took the bowl from his mother, digging his spoon into the cooked oats.

  Jocelin leaned forwards, eyes ablaze with curiosity, placing his elbows on the smooth white tablecloth. ‘You know I’m eager to hear all the details of this latest crusade—’ he stopped suddenly as he caught his wife’s frown, unseen by their son ‘—but of course it can wait until you are fully rested,’ he finished. Lady Mary smiled at him.

  Giseux swallowed a mouthful of porridge. Lord, but it tasted good. ‘There’s nothing to say, Father. Nothing that you don’t already know, anyway. It was moderately successful; Saladin has granted Christians access to Jerusalem.’ His words were dull, toneless.

  ‘You know that King Richard was captured on his way back to England?’

  Giseux nodded. ‘The German Emperor has demanded a huge ransom for him; it will take months to raise the money.’

  ‘Queen Eleanor is keen for you to travel out there immediately, to see if you can negotiate an earlier release.’ Jocelin threw his son a tepid smile, a myriad of lines creasing up at the corner of each eye. ‘I know it’s a lot for her to ask, especially as you’ve only just returned…’

  ‘That woman demands too much of our son!’ Lady Mary blurted out.

  ‘She can ask whatever she likes of her knights,’

  Giseux replied evenly. ‘She is the Queen of England and in charge whilst Richard is held captive.’

  ‘You can’t go away again…look at you, you’re exhausted!’

  Giseux looked into the jewelled green depths of his mother’s eyes, bright with love for him. ‘I already had the Queen’s orders, but I won’t go immediately; there’s something else I must do first.’

  ‘But your duty is to the King, Giseux.’ Jocelin frowned, rubbing fractiously at an old wine stain on the linen tablecloth. And to Queen Eleanor, his mother. ‘It has been since the day you left for Poitiers to train as one of his knights. What could possibly be more important than travelling out to Germany?’

  ‘It shouldn’t take too long,’ Giseux murmured. ‘I will be on the road to the Continent before you know it.’

  ‘Just make sure it doesn’t,’ Jocelin replied tersely, ‘otherwise I’ll have the wrath of Queen Eleanor on my back.’

  His mother touched Giseux’s forearm where it rested on the table. ‘We had a letter…from your brother, William. He’s back in Poitiers now.’ Her voice trailed off miserably; she picked at a loose thread on the front of her gown.

  ‘What does he have to say for himself?’ Giseux asked slowly, carefully. He knew what the letter was about.

  ‘He told us about the ambush, my son,’ Jocelin chipped in. ‘How some of your men were killed. I’m so sorry.’ His father’s voice, though gruff, was sympathetic.

  ‘
Did he say how it happened?’ A wave of guilt sluiced through Giseux; he drank from his cup of mead, trying to cleanse the sour taste in his mouth.

  ‘Nay, he didn’t go into details. He said that you were injured, that you were unlucky.

  ‘Bad luck had nothing to do with it.’ He scraped out the last of his porridge, flung the spoon back in the empty bowl with a clatter. ‘I should have died with those men; it was all my fault.’ He pushed his chair back jerkily, a blank, frozen look in his eyes. ‘Excuse me. I must check on Hugh.’

  Giseux stood outside Hugh’s chamber door, hesitating. Unwanted memories lurched into his brain and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing them to vanish, to disappear. Why, oh, why had William written that letter, especially for his mother’s eyes to see? It would make life easier if nobody knew, make it easier for him to forget. But as the chamber door clicked inwards into the fuggy heat of illness, the screams of his men echoed in his ears and the vivid images of Nadia, sprawled against him as he cradled her dying body, burnt into his brain.

  Trickles of sunlight crept through the gaps in the wooden shutters. His eyes flew to the pallet in the corner. Empty, its linens crisp and pristine. Scarlet cloak bundled heavily around her, Brianna lay on the bed, sprawled alongside her brother, curled into him. Dark lashes spiked downwards, spread over her rosy, flushed cheeks, her lips parted slightly. At least she had taken off her muddy boots; the green wool of her gown had bunched up around her calves, revealing slender legs and fine ankles encased in white-silk stockings. Her feet were small, narrow, the insteps high and arched. Something clawed at him, tore at his very innards, primal, savage; he clenched his teeth at the unwanted surge of desire spiralling into his body.

  He knew in that moment he should leave. But the intriguing curve of her slender frame, her unshod feet, the seductive tilt of her hip, lured him towards the bed. In sleep the stubborn expression had slipped from her face, her mouth tilted upwards in a sweet smile, enchanting. His heart knocked heavily in his chest; he frowned at the unfamiliar sensation. Surely he was stronger than this in the face of temptation? And the chit that lay below him was hardly tempting! Aye, she had a certain beauty, but she had lied to him, shot at him and openly defied his orders, riding off into the night without his protection. She was wilful, headstrong and a nightmare to deal with. What was his body thinking? He’d been too long without a whore, that was the problem, too damned long.