Her Battle-Scarred Knight

by Meriel Fuller

  After the blasting whip of the wind outside, the air in the stables was hushed, muted, ripe with the smell of horse, of dry, rustling straw. The glossy, curving rumps of powerful horses stuck out from the wooden stalls, heads tethered near the mangers where they munched contentedly on hay. Brianna edged carefully past their hindquarters, mindful of the force in those back legs, keeping over to the wall on the right-hand side. Light filtered down from a narrow opening that ran the length of the wall; through the small gap she could see white froths of cloud scudding across the blue.

  ‘Brianna?’

  Her gaze jerked from the scintillating chink of sky. Giseux moved around the shining chestnut rump of his destrier to stand before her, the silver skin of his chainmail glittering in the gloom. He had changed clothes; a black tunic, emblazoned with the golden lions of King Richard, fell to his knees, split up to his bulky thighs at the front revealing the buff-coloured lining. His leather belt hung low on his slim hips, the jewelled hilt of his sword winking in the sporadic light.

  Dryness scraped her mouth at the sight of him. ‘Are you leaving?’ she blurted out, abruptly. Regret churned her stomach.

  ‘I must, Brianna. I have my orders.’ He took a step forwards, white teeth gleaming in his tanned skin.

  Her hands fluttered upwards, momentarily, before she altered the involuntary movement to tuck a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Aye, of course,’ she replied, briskly, her voice sounded a little too loud, too hoarse, in the hush of the stables. A betraying rush of colour stained her cheeks. Why had she expected him to stay here, at his home, with his family? He was a paid knight, in the employ of the Queen. Even so, the realisation that he was leaving pushed daggers of ice through her heart, pure fear. Her lips clamped together angrily at the unwanted, unnecessary feeling—since when had she come to rely on this man? She wriggled her toes in her boots, the cold seeping through her thin soles from the packed earth floor.

  ‘Why did you not tell me what Hugh asked you to do?’

  Her head jerked up, heart clamouring frantically against the wall of her chest. ‘I…er…’ Brianna hesitated. In truth, she hadn’t wanted to think about the task herself. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Because it’s family business. Why should I tell you?’

  Because I want to know, he thought, with a rush of awareness. I want to know everything about you. ‘I thought you might have mentioned the small fact that Hugh wants you, in his stead, to claim the daughter of the man to whom you were married.’

  Her lashes flew up, dark spikes of black velvet, startled by his words. The gilded band securing her veil twinkled in the shadowed gloom of the stables, making her appear magical, ethereal, like a fairy sprite. Even though he stood a good few feet away, he sensed the agitation running through her lissom frame, every muscle tensed and ready to bolt, to escape, like a small deer on the edge of a forest. She wrapped her slim arms about her chest, tightly, her mouth hard and set.

  ‘Hugh asks too much of you,’ Giseux murmured, reading the haunted vulnerability in her eyes, the gap in her defences that she battled to hide, for no one to see. But he saw it, vivid and clear, as if pinned to her gown like a full-blown rose. What had her husband done to her, to make her shrink back into herself at the slightest reference to her marriage?

  Brianna drew her sagging shoulders up. ‘Nay, I will do it.’ She shook her head, violently, trying to dispel the image of Walter’s slobbering, cavernous mouth. He had never managed to kiss her, in that whole, horrible half-year of marriage. Every time his foul breath lurched near, she had ducked her head, so that his wet lips landed on her cheek, or in her hair. Even that had been too close. She shuddered. ‘I’m stronger now…it’s been a long time.’

  ‘Not long enough, methinks,’ Giseux observed wryly. She jerked back as his fingers stretched towards her, cupped the side of her face. The bruise on her jawline had faded to a mottled patchwork of blotches. ‘See how you flinch every time I come near you?’

  ‘That’s because I don’t want you near me!’ she snapped. But her words belied her actions; she failed to pull away. Her breath caught in her throat, the sweet press of his lips nudging her memory. The warmth from his wide thumb seeped into her cold skin, brushing the sensitive side of her mouth, before it dropped away. How could she tell him that she didn’t flinch from fear, but from the anticipation of what might happen?

  ‘Brianna, I want you to stay here, with my parents. Don’t go to fetch Matilda—we can easily send soldiers to bring her back.’

  Her eyes flared over him, puzzled by the concern in his tone. ‘But Hugh asked me; he wants me to go.’ She knotted her fingers together, knuckles twisting. ‘Apparently I’m the only person Matilda will travel with. She trusts me.’

  ‘Hugh has another reason for wanting you to go, Brianna.’ Giseux took a deep breath, fumbling around for the correct words, words that would keep her safe. ‘He wants to see you settled, Brianna, married. I…’

  Mouth gaping in horror, she rounded on him, expression wary, guarded. ‘Has he been speaking with you about this?’ Her fists curled into little balls at her sides, tension rattling through her body. He wanted to reach down, seize each hand in turn and untwist those rigid fingers, one by one. The light silk veil brushed delicately over her shoulders as she shook her head, pulse beating rapidly in the silken hollow of her throat. ‘You have it wrong, anyway. Hugh wouldn’t want me to marry…he knows I don’t…that I have no intentions in that direction.’ She lifted her liquid blue eyes to Giseux. ‘Hugh will look after me—he is my brother, after all.’

  Giseux turned away to his horse, pressing one shoulder against the animal’s flank in order to tighten the girth strap on the saddle, mouth pressed into a grim line. Looking after Brianna seemed to be the last thing on Hugh’s mind; he had traded her to achieve his own ends. But how could Giseux convince her?

  ‘Hugh wants you to marry Walter, Brianna.’ The smooth pelt of the horseflesh warmed his cheek as he hefted the leather strap, his horse snorting in protest. He turned back in time to see her face wash with grey, a deathly pallor.

  ‘What are you saying?’ she whispered, swaying a little. ‘Why do you say such things?’ Her fingers clutched at the end of the wooden stall.

  ‘Because it’s the truth, Brianna. Why do you think Hugh wants you, and only you, to fetch Matilda? My father has a whole raft of soldiers at his disposal who would perform the task—why ask you?’ Shards of silver flecked the mineral darkness of his eyes.

  Brianna edged backwards, trying to escape his cruel words. She hadn’t wanted him to go, but now she couldn’t wait for him to leave. ‘It’s not true, I don’t believe you!’ The hem of her skirt snagged on a rogue splinter in the wood-planked wall and she yanked at it, angrily.

  ‘You need to watch your back, Brianna.’ In two quick, rustling strides he was in front of her, preventing her exit. He read the rigid dismissal in her eyes, the shuttered hostility, and knew he had failed. Why should she trust him, a stranger she had known not above two days, above her own brother, someone she had known a lifetime?

  ‘I always watch my back,’ she replied bluntly, spinning smartly on her heel to stalk out of the stables. At the entrance, she paused, the flash of her wide blue eyes seeking him out in the gloom. ‘Thank you for everything you have done for Hugh.’ Her tone stung him, jerky, distant. ‘This is the last time we will see each other…so, farewell.’ The sinuous curve of her spine, encased in silk velvet, vanished into the howling wind.

  Giseux folded his arms high across his broad chest, staring at the open doorway, the image of her slight figure imprinted in his mind long after she had gone. Nay, my lady, he thought, recalling the azure spark of her eyes, the sheer courage bound up in her small frame. This will not be the last time.

  Chapter Eight

  High on a ridge, the flat-bottomed valley below, Brianna pulled gradually on the reins, slowing her horse to a walk. She leaned back across the saddle, feeling the stretch in the muscles of her back, reaching
out her arm to rummage in her leather saddlebag for a water bottle.

  ‘Shall we stop for the night, my lady?’ One of the two soldiers who travelled with her—she thought his name was John—reined in beside her, the strong wind whipping his horse’s tail. The individual strands fanned out, feathers on a bird’s wing.

  Brianna squinted at the grey, lowering sky, the faintest blush of sun discernible on the western horizon. ‘We’ll ride until it’s dark.’ She resented the presence of the two soldiers, unwilling to give them orders, unwilling to think for them as well as herself, but Jocelin had insisted, especially with Lady Mary urging him on at her side. For Hugh, Brianna simply couldn’t have left soon enough; his palpable eagerness to see her en route to Matilda left a faint bitter taste in her mouth. But now, wiping the drops of liquid from her lips, she dismissed his behaviour; her brother was scared, that was all, scared that he wouldn’t survive his illness and that Matilda and his child wouldn’t reach him in time.

  And Giseux? She clapped the leather stopper back into the bottle, stuffed it back into the bag on the rear of the horse and kicked the palfrey into a trot, indicating that the soldiers should follow her down the narrow sheep path off the ridge. Giseux had left, soon after their stilted conversation in the stables. Brianna had watched, covertly, from Hugh’s upstairs window, as his tall commanding frame had clasped his father in a huge hug and kissed his mother’s tear-wet cheeks, before springing into the saddle with athletic grace. Her body hummed with the memory of him: the solid hulk of his muscular chest and legs, the swift appraisal of his intelligent grey eyes, his dynamic presence ripping holes in her hard-won confidence. And she would never see him again…or be kissed by him. She scraped her top teeth roughly against her bottom lip, chewing thoughtfully, canting her body back to counter the palfrey’s downward path from the top of the hill. There it was again; that thrill through her body, a nebulous fluttering that welled up in her chest, her stomach. A latent excitement, a kindling.

  ‘Mistress?’ The soldier’s voice knocked into her thoughts; she forced herself to concentrate. ‘We can cut through here to Thornslait; it will be quicker.’ Brianna followed the direction of his uplifted arm. They had reached the bottom of the valley; a definite trail led westwards, with the bulk of deciduous woodland before them. Brianna eyed the stark outlines of the trees doubtfully; she was vaguely familiar with the route westwards, but in fairness, their destination lay to the north. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, aye, mistress, I was born in Thornslait, I know the way,’ the younger soldier reassured her. The fierce breeze flattened his sparse blond hair to his protruding forehead.

  ‘You had better lead the way, then.’ An uneasy feeling scampered through her veins; she told herself to ignore it. Jocelin was paying these men to protect her; he had picked them out himself. Even so, she touched her knife-belt, moving her fingers along to the scabbard, checking the hilt was snug, secure.

  The woods were dim and still. Moss covered the damp, spongy ground, bright green mounds against the grey-brown trunks, mottled with sage-green lichen. Crisp brown bracken lay folded over in forlorn heaps, curling fronds singed by frost, waiting for spring. Bird-song sprung out haphazardly, startling the quiet; at the end of the day most birds sought a safe haven for the night. The two soldiers rode up front, the metallic links of their chainmail rippling like fish skin beneath their tunics as their destriers followed the path that skittered this way and that through the looming trees. Neither wore a helmet, or carried a shield; presumably both considered the level of threat to be minimal on such a journey. A heaviness grew in Brianna’s heart; as reluctant as she was to reach her destination, and face her husband of old, she wondered whether these two knew their direction. Thornslait was only the first stop on a long journey; after tonight, they had at least another day of travelling.

  The trio reached a spot where the stark canopy of bare branches broke overhead and the grey forbidding light poured down, illuminating the sheen of a murky, stagnant pool. Clumps of bleached, exhausted grass flung over the water’s edge, like brittle, sea-soaked hair.

  ‘Let’s stop here,’ the older soldier announced abruptly, wheeling his horse around in front of her, jumping down from the saddle. Her palfrey’s head jerked up, stopping just in time to avoid bumping into the rear of the younger soldier’s horse, who also was dismounting.

  ‘Nay, not here!’ Brianna frowned at their presumption. ‘We will stop in the village, as we said.’

  The older soldier grinned at her, his leering smile gapped with missing teeth. ‘We prefer it here, my lady,’ he drawled, stepping over to hold the palfrey’s bridle. Pinpricks of stubble shadowed his chin, his upper lip. ‘It’s much quieter.’

  The younger soldier snorted, unable to conceal his glee.

  ‘And I prefer to spend the night in the village.’ Her voice climbed a notch; suddenly she felt very unsafe. ‘And let go of my horse’s bridle!’ She yanked downwards on the leather, but the soldier held firm, sneering up at her. ‘Let go!’ she said again, more firmly.

  ‘We take orders only from Lord Jocelin.’ The older soldier swept insolent eyes over the curve of her bodice.

  Overheard, bare branches rubbed together, creaking and shifting in the brooding stillness.

  ‘And Lord Jocelin isn’t here,’ the younger soldier reminded her, moving in on the other side of her horse, effectively trapping her.

  Dear God, so it had come to this. Breathe, breathe deeply and concentrate, she told herself. Don’t panic, don’t lose your head. The mens’ position, below her, made it difficult to use her knife. Instead, very, very slowly, beneath the concealing fall of her skirts, she nudged her toes out of each stirrup.

  ‘Lord Jocelin will hear of this.’ She condemned them with her tone. ‘Your behaviour is despicable.’

  ‘We haven’t done anything yet, little lady,’ the older man chortled, ‘and we’ve the whole sweet night ahead of us.’ As he lurched towards her, no doubt intending to pull her from the horse, she kicked up smartly, catching the toe of her boot against his grizzled chin. With a yelp of pain, he stumbled backwards, cursing, releasing his hold on the reins. At the same time, she kicked up with her left foot, but the younger man was too quick for her, holding fast to her boot before it made any contact with his body, fingers clamped around the toe.

  She jabbed her leg continually against his grip, but he clung on, his narrow, spiteful face split into a huge grin. ‘You can’t escape now, my lady. We’ll soon sort out your high-and-mighty ways!’ The boot had always been a loose fit on her; the leather moved slackly over her calf, her ankle. She stopped kicking, flattening her toes so that the boot slipped off easily and experienced the briefest moment of pleasure as the young soldier flew backwards into a patch of brambles, clutching her empty boot. Then she seized the reins once more, jabbing desperately with her heels at the palfrey’s rounded sides, navigating skilfully around the older man who half-rose from the ground, clutching his bleeding chin.

  ‘You’ll pay for this!’ His expression was one of wild fury, mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. He lifted a fat fist, the whites of his eyes, bloodshot, bulging from his flabby face. Great pockets of sagging flesh hung beneath his sockets. ‘We know these forests—there’s no way you’ll escape us!’

  Panic drummed in her veins, hot blood rushing to her ears as she urged the horse forwards, faster, faster, plunging once more into the trees. She screwed up her eyes to decipher the trail in the dimming light. It was narrow, indistinct, thick brambles, ferns and clinging ivy crowding in from each side. How could she ever hope to escape them? The thought emerged on a half-sob, a clawing pressure in her chest. Already she could hear the chink of a bridle behind her; the men were mounting up, would soon be in pursuit.

  The path, restricted by so much vegetation, prevented the palfrey from moving faster than a trot; with a sinking heart, Brianna realised she must continue on foot. She could never outrun those men; her only option was to hide, hide deep in the forest of impe
netrable brambles that tore at her skirts, plucked at her arms. Slipping from the docile, ambling mare, she patted her rump, encouraging the animal to move on, but the horse merely looked at her curiously, with one round, unblinking eye, before beginning to tear at the short grass alongside the bare earth of the track. Brianna began to run, forwards at first, grimacing as stones poked into her left foot, covered only by a silk stocking. She ran fast, swiftly, filling her lungs with great gulps of air to speed her on, adrenalin firing the muscles in her legs, her back, knife jolting on her upper thigh. She pushed on, and on, until she heard the shouts of the soldiers behind her; they had reached her horse. Then she slowed, searching the brambles for a gap, a space into which she could squeeze and crawl away from the main path. Crouching down, she levered herself under the big, arching sprays of vicious thorns, careful to not disturb the undergrowth at the point where she had entered. Falling on to her hands and knees, she began to crawl forwards, fingers sinking into the wet, spongy ground, releasing a pungent, sour smell of rotting leaves. She heard them slashing at the undergrowth with their swords and forced herself onwards, faster, a small voice telling her not to panic, to keep going, quelling the bubbling fear in her chest.

  Giseux. The name burst into her brain, carrying with it the power of the man, the sheer visceral strength. The force of her feeling shocked her. She wanted him, here, now, longed for his formidable energy, his protection. But he was far away and her heart folded in on itself at the feeling of utter loss, of absolute loneliness. Before, she had prided herself on being able to look after herself; now, she hated it.