Brianna sprung from the thicket of brambles into a scoop of land, covered in a mess of fallen leaves, shrouded by huge, massive beech trees. It was almost dark, the silver crescent of a new moon peeping through the net of branches above. The land rose up into a small mound, one side covered by a fallen beech, cracked into two pieces, the trunk white and brittle. Working her way carefully up the slope, breath punching out in short, sharp bursts, she spotted a dark hole where the tree had split, the jagged entrance fringed with waving tendrils of ivy: a natural hiding place. Sobbing with relief, Brianna wriggled into the space, ripping the veil and circlet from her head, fearing their brightness would betray her. Here she would hide, gather her scattered thoughts and wait until the soldiers became bored, or tired. She was prepared to wait for a long time.
She must have dozed fitfully for a while, her head leaning awkwardly against the smooth, grey bark of the lower trunk. Her eyes felt sore, itchy. Her neck jarred as she lifted it and she was thirsty, swallowing a couple of times as she tried to relieve the scratching dryness in her throat. Her face and hands were icy, limbs cramped and stiff after sitting still for so long. Drawing her knees up, she clasped them with her hands, listening intently. Was it safe for her to leave? She could see very little through the thick curtain of ivy, only a glimmer of moonlight highlighting the shadows. Her best plan would be to retrace her steps to the trail, then follow that back to the main path from which they had deviated earlier. Then she could return to Sefanoc, before embarking on the trip to fetch Matilda. Maybe she would ask one of the farmhands to accompany her; somehow, her courage to travel alone seemed to have deserted her.
Inching cautiously from her hiding place, shoulder catching on a jutting-out section of rotten wood as she crawled forwards, she pushed out into the open, head drooping a little with fatigue. The wet leaves on the ground soaked through her stockinged foot as she levered herself slowly to her feet. The bowl of land was almost quiet, the low-slung branches shifting, whispering in the slight breeze, the squeakings and rustlings of night creatures, birds, filling the silence. She stumbled forwards, limping, her progress lit by the faint light of the rising moon. In the shadows, she realised a path led to the left of the bramble thicket through which she had previously fought her way and her heart lifted. Would they have taken her horse, or would they still be waiting for her? An oak tree lunged out of the darkness at her; she started at the wide trunk, its bark twisted, warped, like the grotesque face of a wizened crone, a witch. In her tiredness, she could even make out the hollowed eyes, the gaping mouth. She wrenched her gaze away, marched past firmly, dragging her cloak around her. Exhaustion was making her stupid, foolish; mistakes were one thing she couldn’t afford to make.
When she finally reached it, the trail was empty. She peered round a supportive trunk, hugging the rigid knots that pinched her chest, and scanned first north, then south, the bare earth of the track ash-grey in the moonlight. Nothing. Maybe, in finding itself abandoned, her horse had made its way back to the clearing, seeking water? Her feet made no sound as she walked carefully back to the scene of her attack, her eyes and ears vigilant for any sight, any sound of the two soldiers. Apart from the delicate silver embroidery around the low, curving neckline of her gown, which she made sure was covered up by the folds of her cloak, she felt sure no sparkle of silver, or flash of gold, would give her position away. Her veil and circlet lay buried in a hole beneath the fallen beech tree.
A soldier and his horse stood by the pool, his back turned towards her. She saw the glimmer of chainmail beneath the enveloping cloak, the bare head, and knew they had waited. Waited for her. Her breath seized in her lungs, parcelling up her energy, turning her limbs to wet rags. Tears, hot and itchy, flooded her eyes. Foolish girl! Why had she not struck out on to the other side of the forest, pitted her wits against the unknown territory? She had wanted to find her horse, to make the journey easier on herself, and now she was going to pay for it.
She twisted around and fled, filling her lungs with great gulps of air to speed the muscles in her legs. Had he seen her? She hoped, prayed, it was the older soldier who she had seen, for he had looked as if he couldn’t run further than a few steps. Great pounding footsteps echoed about the forest behind her; her heart quailed and she almost stumbled with the panic coursing through her veins. Sharp stones ripped at the soft sole of her left foot, unprotected with no leather boot, but she gritted her teeth and ploughed on. But the heavy, thudding footsteps gained on her; he was so close now, she could hear his steady, even, breathing.
* * *
Frustration rose in her chest, mingled with the slick of fear: this could not be happening!
An arm snaked out, caught at her waist and brought her down to the hard-packed earth. Breath punched from her lungs with the impact, from the solid ground smacking into her body, from the heavy weight sprawled over her back, crushing her. She lay, lips pressed against the dry soil, tasting the dust in her mouth, and wanted to howl. The energy drained from her slim frame, seeping into the earth around her. She tried to tell herself to fight, tried to conjure up words of strength, of courage, but found, with dismal sadness, that she simply had no strength left.
‘Are you hurt?’ a voice demanded in a harsh whisper, strident, oddly familiar.
The pressure on top of her lifted and a hand on her arm rolled her over on to her back, gently.
‘What?’ Eyes shut firmly, she mumbled, raising tentative fingers to her forehead, wondering if she were dreaming.
‘I said, ‘Are you hurt?’ Talk to me!’
Brianna opened her eyes. Giseux hunched over her, kneeling, concern etched into the taut angles of his face. His hair stuck out in all directions, pale sable wisps falling over his forehead.
‘Is it really you?’ she whispered, without thinking, her eyes tracing the sensuous curve of his bottom lip. His grey eyes roamed over her, possessive, territorial. She raised one arm, hesitant, fingers touching the rugged slash of his jaw. The soft prickle of his beard rasped against her palm.
‘Aye, of course it’s me,’ he snapped, drawing his breath in sharply at her feathered touch. What in Heaven’s name had happened to her? The pale, delicate skin of her face was marked, fragile skin scratched with thin trails of blood; her cloak was torn.
‘But…I thought you were leaving,’ she breathed out, perplexed. ‘I saw you leave…saw you ride out from Sambourne.’ Strands of rust-coloured hair, tempered by the ethereal light, floated out around her head, spilled over the cracked, rutted earth.
‘I changed my mind.’ He chewed the words out. After his failure to persuade Brianna to stay with his parents, he had ridden straight to the castle of Robert de Lacey, an old friend who had been willing to travel to Germany in Giseux’s stead to take up the cause of King Richard. The need to protect this woman had rushed over him, inexplicable, confusing, powerful. Knowing what Hugh had told him, he couldn’t leave Brianna alone, vulnerable: he told himself it was his knight’s duty, at least, to protect her.
‘You changed your mind,’ she murmured, incredulous. What was he saying—that he had come back…for her? Her befuddled mind failed to make sense of his words. Fighting to contain the spinning in her head, Brianna levered herself into a sitting position. She sagged forwards, palms resting against her knees. ‘I thought you were them,’ she stuttered out. He caught the flash of half-dried tears on her cheek. ‘I waited and waited…I hid—’ her arm flailed out as if to indicate a vague hiding place ‘—and I thought they would be gone.’ She shook her head, the chaotic bundle of hair at the nape of her neck threatening to dislodge. ‘Why didn’t you call out to me, why did you chase me like that? I thought I was finished.’ A great gulping sob tore at her chest, but she bound her arms tightly about her bosom, suppressing it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, cursing his actions. ‘I had no intention of scaring you. But moving silently has its advantages. Those soldiers might still be about.’
Brianna shuddered.
‘I fou
nd your boot.’ He dangled the buff-coloured leather before her.
She took it from him, bent down to jam her toes back into the supple leather, ignoring the pain as the boot constricted the cuts, the lacerations on the sole of her foot. Her eyes pricked with tears. ‘It came off in his hands,’ she responded, her voice hitching with the memory. ‘When I kicked at him.’
His calm eyes sparkled over her, grimly assessing. ‘What happened?’
‘They attacked me…they were going to…’ She dropped her face into her hands, feeling the tears gush through her fingers. His arms wound around her shoulders, pulling her head into his chest, his heart lifting as he acknowledged the softening of her body against him, no resistance. The smell of sweet lavender rose from her hair, tantalising his nostrils. She had been through so much, this maid, he thought. He had chided her for eschewing any help, for fighting her own battles, and now, when protection was forced on her, this had happened. Who could she trust? Him. She could trust him. If only he could persuade her of that fact.
Brianna rested her forehead against the finely spun wool of his surcoat, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart pulsating against her skin. His tunic smelled of washing soap, a mixture of rose water and lye, mingled with the musky scent of his skin, a hint of exotic spices. His warmth, his energy, percolated through her frazzled senses. Her head brushed against the curve of his upper arm where it joined into the muscled mass of his shoulder and she gritted her teeth, fighting the temptation to pull even closer to him. She wanted to stay there for ever.
‘Brianna?’ The smoky timbre of his voice echoed over the top of her head. ‘We need to move.’
She lifted her head reluctantly, the skin beneath her eyes bruised, swollen with exhaustion. The lean cut of his jaw seemed very, very close, blond bristles hazing his chin.
‘I suppose I need to keep going north.’ Her voice was a dull monotone, lacklustre, her energy deflated by the recent events. She shook her head, once, a sharp, jerky movement, picking erratically at a loose thread on her girdle that hung over her knife-belt. ‘Your father picked those soldiers out to protect me…and look what happened!’
‘Those men will be found and punished for what they did.’ Giseux studied her bent head. He should never have left her alone.
In the drifting moonlight, her skin shone like alabaster, her beautiful hair glinting like spun gold. The onset of night had brought a corresponding drop in temperature; a tremble seemed to seize her slight figure.
‘We need to find somewhere to shelter for the night; it’s too cold to sleep in the open.’ He touched her arm, meaning to help her up, lead her to the horses, but she pulled back, hesitating, and his arm fell away.
‘Why did you come?’ Her brow creased in puzzlement. ‘The last time I saw you, you were riding for Germany.’
That was before I realised I… He smothered the next word before it entered his brain, but it hung, teetering on the edge of his consciousness, taunting him. No, never that…had he gone completely mad? Thunderstruck at the wave of emotion that pulsed through him, he sprung upwards, lunging away from her hunched figure to fetch both horses, patiently cropping the short grass by the pool.
‘Someone has to stop you rushing headlong into the trap your brother has set for you.’ He towered over her, both sets of reins in one hand.
She scowled at the metal rivets on his boot lacings. ‘Why do you persist in this false reasoning? I’ve told you before, Hugh would never do a thing like that to me.’
‘Not even for the love of his life, the girl he has dreamed of returning home to after three long years away?’
‘Nay.’ She shook her head slowly, trying to ignore the creep of doubt inching through her chest. ‘And I don’t need you to come with me.’ Her protest sounded feeble, even to her own ears. ‘I don’t need you.’
Giseux snared both sets of reins in one hand, covering the ground back to her seated figure in three great strides. He bent down, scooping her easily to her feet, bracing her into his side as she teetered. ‘Nay, Brianna,’ he murmured, warm breath fanning her pale cheek, ‘you need me.’
And as his silver eyes glittered over her, she realised that it was true.
Chapter Nine
A huddle of cottages gathered around a small patch of green formed the village of Thornslait. The houses were simple, rectangular buildings, walls made up from a mixture of mud and straw plastered over a mesh of woven sticks. Smoke poured from holes in the thatch roofs, spilling into the night air like dark liquid.
Through gritty eyes, Brianna watched as Giseux dismounted, handing her his reins to hold, and walked towards the nearest house. An old man opened the door at Giseux’s knock, his face shadowed by the overhang of thatch that protected the walls from rain and snow. She heard the brief exchange of speech, too far away to decipher the actual words. A perplexing detachment stole over her; it felt strange for someone else to organise her night’s accommodation—normally she would have insisted on deciding for herself where she was to sleep. She couldn’t quite believe that this man, this knight, had changed his plans for her, had come after her; she wanted to pinch herself, to make certain she wasn’t dreaming. Giseux handed the man some money, a gleam of silver in the gloaming, then, wrapping himself into a threadbare cloak, the old man took up a long walking stick, moving off into the centre of the village.
‘Giseux,’ she hissed, glancing anxiously after the hobbling figure. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Securing us a bed for the night.’ Before she could argue, he laced his hands around her narrow waist and swung her down from the palfrey.
‘But…where is he going?’
Giseux tied both horses to a rickety wooden post near the cottage, releasing the girth straps to haul the heavy saddles from the horses. He dropped them onto the ground, in the lee of the roof. Taking her fingers, stiff with cold, he led her through the door. ‘He will sleep on a pallet bed, at his daughter’s cottage.’
‘But to turn him out of his own home!’ Her gaze fixed longingly on the dancing flames set in a circle of stones in the middle of the packed earth floor, a rustic hearth. The smoke curled upwards, slowly, filling the air with a slight haze, before sucking up through the hole in the roof.
Giseux turned to her, his sculptured profile lit by the orange glow from the fire. ‘He was happy to go, Brianna. He and his family will not want for food for many months.’
‘But…?’ The heat from the fire seared through the front of her gown, her legs; an involuntary shudder passed through her, as her frozen limbs began to warm up.
‘Stop fretting,’ he countered firmly. ‘You need to sleep.’
She searched the interior for some form of bed, a pallet, but found nothing.
‘Up there.’ Giseux pointed, the fine metallic scales of his chainmail glinting, rippling over his broad shoulders.
Brianna followed his outstretched arm, up a makeshift ladder cobbled together from wonky, ill-fitting pieces of wood, to a sleeping platform, set high up beneath the rafters. ‘And where will you sleep?’ she asked sternly. The fleeting memory of his kiss scalded her brain.
He grinned. ‘I will sleep here, in front of the fire.’ He quirked one eyebrow at her, challenging her to disagree, to wrangle with him.
But to his surprise, she nodded, then turned away, climbing the ladder with a graceful agility. He caught the tantalising glimpse of pale, stocking-covered calves above her short boots, before she threw herself down into the mound of straw that would be her bed for the night.
Easing her boots off, wincing, she wrapped herself in one of the many blankets that were folded neatly to one side of the sleeping area, then popped her head over the edge of the platform. Giseux was still standing, contemplating the dancing flames.
‘Giseux?’ she called out, her voice tentative. One loop of burnished hair hung down behind her ear.
He looked up, eyes burning with black fire, dangerous.
‘Thank you.’
* * *
At first, Brianna wasn’t sure of the identity of the sound. Reluctant to be drawn out of the comfortable, delicious sleep that had claimed her almost immediately after her head had touched the straw-stuffed pillow, she rolled over, away from the noise, hoping it would disappear, vanish. But no, there it was again, a low-pitched moan, then a shout. Her eyes popped open, heart racing. It was Giseux.
Lying on her back, her body supported by a deep mound of straw, she studied the rafters above her head. The layer of thatching reeds formed neat, vertical lines between the uneven cross-beams. Should she go to him? Very, very slowly, she crawled to the edge of the platform, dragging the blanket with her for warmth, and peeped down.
Her heart rolled, Giseux lay on his back, quiet now, limbs sprawled beside the dying embers of the fire. A blanket tangled around his chest and legs, the white linen of his shirt stark against the dull brown of the wool. He had kept on the braies he wore beneath his armour; his feet were bare. She jumped as he shouted again, one hand jolting downwards to clutch at his right thigh through the blanket. The movement galvanised her; all logic, all conscious thought drove from her mind at the sight of him. She had to help him.
The rungs of the ladder bit into her bare feet as she descended; she sucked in her breath sharply as the cuts on her foot throbbed. She had been so tired, she had forgotten to look at the injury. Kneeling at Giseux’s side, Brianna perched back on her heels, unsure, hoping that he would wake up, would pull himself up out of this nightmare. But no, he continued to thrash from side to side, his eyes tight shut, deep in some other terrifying world. Sweat strung through his hair, turning the pale brown strands darker, more sable, the chiselled panels on each side of his face taut with some unseen agony. Sunburn touched his high cheekbones, lending him a wild, predatory appearance.
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