Chapter Ten
Northwards from Thornslait, the countryside opened up, smoothing out into a series of high, rounded chalk plateaux. Down in the valleys, deciduous trees clustered, bare branches skeletal against the scrubby hillside, studded with the untidy nests of crows, messy baubles against the lucid blue sky. Rooks rose sporadically in the air, black wings like flashing knifeblades, wheeling and circling in the weak sunlight. Higher up, on the rougher moorland blasted continuously by a keen, penetrating wind, the trees were few: small sessile oaks and stunted hawthorns clutching on to the tussocky ground with roots exposed.
Giseux, the hem of his surcoat flapping out at the sides, galloped up ahead, the muscled rump of his horse shining with sweat, lumps of sticky white earth flying up from beneath the hooves. He kicked his animal on, urging it to move faster, more rapidly, over the easy ground. With her bandaged foot held gingerly within the stirrup, Brianna found it difficult to keep up with his relentless pace. Despite great effort, she was dropping back, the distance between them growing further, wider. Hunger gnawed at her stomach; Thornslait had been barely stirring when they had clattered out of the village at first light, no fires lit, no prospect of food in sight. She eased back on the reins, slowing to a walk. The wind cut in around the back of her neck and she raised the voluminous hood of her cloak to cover her bright head.
His horse covering the ground in great, long strides, Giseux’s head whipped around. Sawing roughly on the reins, he wheeled the animal about, charged back to her. ‘Why have you slowed down?’ he roared at her over the sifting wind, massive shoulders silhouetted against the washed-out blue of the sky. ‘We need to keep going.’
‘Giseux,’ she replied patiently, her cheeks ruddy from the smarting wind, ‘I’m hungry and thirsty; we’ve been riding for hours.’
His silvered glance followed the line of her hem as it curved from the palfrey’s neck to its rump. ‘Have you changed your mind?’ he murmured. Every sinew in his body clamoured for her to turn around now, to avert the danger which she was placing herself, but reason told him that she would never trust him until she realised the truth of her brother’s betrayal for herself. He could only stay by her side and protect her.
Brianna angled forwards, patted her horse on the side of its neck. The short-cropped grey coat was sleek, a velvet nap beneath her fingers. ‘Nay, of course not.’
Her voice hitched. The closer they travelled to Matilda’s home, Walter’s home, the bigger the sunken pit of anxiety grew within her. ‘I am hungry, really hungry. I’m not one of your soldiers who can march for hours and hours on an empty stomach.’
His mouth levered into a half-smile, gaze running over her slender curves. ‘No, you’re not,’ he admitted. ‘We can stop at Whitton, it’s further up, at the end of this ridge.’
* * *
They were in luck; it was market day in the small town. Crowds of people thronged the square, pushing and jostling against each other as they fought to buy, to sell, to barter. The cries of the vendors rang out, clashing with the noisy shouts and laughter emerging from the ale houses bordering the square. Each merchant had tried to outdo the next in attracting customers: bright, rippling silks sat next to floury rounds of bread, piled high in teetering, yeasty mounds. Wheels of cheese balanced on top of each other, next to a stack of candles; a vat of salted ham. The smell of roasting meat filled the air, coupled with the honeyed scent of mead and the acrid smell of animal dung.
People dropped back when they saw Giseux, broad and impressive on his glossy destrier, eyeing his shining armour covertly, respectfully, as he walked his own horse, and led Brianna on her palfrey to a wooden bar where he could secure the bridles.
‘Do you want to stay here?’ He eyed the white gleam of her bandaged foot.
Brianna scanned the colourful, chaotic mass of the market, the smell and noise entrancing her. It had been a long time since she’d had the pleasure of wandering through a street market; normally she was the one trying to sell her wares. ‘Can I come?’ she asked tentatively.
‘You don’t normally ask permission,’ Giseux commented drily, extracting her scuffed leather boot from the saddlebag resting on the rump of her horse. A jolt of exhilaration shot up her calf as he gripped her heel, sliding her foot carefully into the loose-fitting leather. ‘How does that feel?’
‘Much better.’ She swung her leg over the rump of her horse, aiming to dismount, but he caught her waist, lowered her down gently.
‘Take it easy; there were some deep cuts that will take a bit of time to heal.’
Brianna laughed, rummaging for her money pouch. She had a few pennies, enough to buy a bread roll that would fill her stomach. ‘Fear not, Giseux. I’m not about to go running about just yet.’
Her laughter was like music, rippling, magical, the sheer beauty of the sound spiking deep into his chest. The pale, beautiful oval of her face lifted with her smile. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen anything so wonderful.
‘I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh,’ he said, sticking his arm out at a right angle, indicating that she should take it, and, with a lifting heart, she curled her arm around the crook of his elbow.
‘It’s because I feel so…’ Happy, she had been about to say. Happy that he was with her, happy that he had stayed, despite her not believing his words about Hugh.
‘You feel so…?’ His voice nudged her for an answer.
‘So…much better. My foot, I mean,’ she ended lamely.
Her heart danced as they walked as a couple through the market, on that cold, jewel-bright winter day. She knew he only held on to her to prevent her falling flat on her face, but even so, she could enjoy the sensation of his muscled upper arm pressed into her shoulder, bolstering her. They wandered across the rutted, uneven mud of the main square, negotiating the rank, open drains and empty barrels tipped over outside an inn, to a row of stalls, some only trestle tables, decorated with colourful flags, or fluttering awnings strung from one side of the stall to the other.
‘Is that all you want?’ Giseux asked, as Brianna handed over her few pennies for a couple of bread rolls. ‘I thought you said you were hungry.’
‘This will fill me up,’ she replied firmly. It was enough that he was escorting her; she couldn’t start borrowing money from him as well. She hadn’t thought to ask Hugh for any coin before she had left for the trip.
The wizened old crone behind the stall parcelled up the warm bread into a cloth bag. ‘I bet you’re glad your husband is home…alive.’ The woman nodded in the direction of Giseux, his attention distracted by a squabble to his left between two stallholders. Her watery eyes studied the sleek chainmail, the sparkling hilt of his sword.
‘Oh, but he’s not my…’ Brianna’s words faltered on her lips, cheeks ripening with faint colour. She glanced covertly at Giseux, but he was watching the argument; he hadn’t heard, thank God. Was it really possible that they had been mistaken for man and wife? Heat suffused her bones, heart sparkling with the thought: is this how it would feel, married to Giseux? As quickly as the image arose, she quashed it, smartly; it could never be. But for this moment in time, she could enjoy the comfortable pressure of his arm in hers, the support of his powerful, long-limbed body against her side, and treasure the memory for ever.
At Giseux’s suggestion they rode to a quieter spot outside the town, to a glade of silver birch, their nude branches swaying like tendrils of hair in the breeze. Down in this valley, the wind was less fierce and the climbing sun pierced through the branches, casting a dappled shade that reminded her of spring. From the back of his horse, Giseux produced a blanket, which he spread over the thin, spindly grass growing beneath the trees.
He flung himself down on to the tight woollen weave, propping his back against the slim trunk of the birch. Ripping open his saddlebag, he spread his purchases before him: cheese, roast meat, bread and fruit, and began to eat with appreciation. Dismounting carefully, Brianna’s mouth watered; she wanted to hide the
small cloth bag containing her own meagre fare.
Giseux glanced up as she sat down, folding her knees to one side beneath her as she perched on the edge of the blanket. ‘Please, share some of mine.’ He threw her a wide, unexpected smile. ‘I bought too much.
I’ve spent so long chewing my way through charred, unidentifiable meat—when I saw what was on offer at that market, well, I couldn’t resist.’
Nibbling on her bread roll, Brianna eyed the food laid out before him. ‘Maybe a bit of cheese?’
‘Take it.’ He pushed a round of cheese towards her, throwing his silver eating knife after it, so she could cut a slice. He leaned his head back against the trunk, closing his eyes. ‘God, this food tastes good. You were right to make me stop.’
She wished she could stay, here, in this place for ever. Like the sound of the sea against shingle, the wind shivered through the branches above, moving spots of shadow over Giseux’s face; he was so still, his face upturned to the sun, that she wondered whether he slept. Both his knees were drawn up, the skirt of his tunic falling back against his thighs to reveal the tight, bunched muscle of his legs beneath his close-fitting armour.
‘We’ve not much further to go, Brianna, till Walter’s castle. Are you still insisting on doing this?’
Brianna placed her half-eaten roll carefully back into her bag. ‘I must, Giseux, I must face Walter.’ Otherwise he will haunt my whole life, colour my behaviour for ever. ‘I must face my demons,’ she said, finally.
‘This trip isn’t about Hugh at all, is it?’ One huge hand appeared across the rug, lifting her cold fingers, encircling them, lightly. ‘You’ve never recovered from what happened to you, have you?’
Hot tears sprung to her eyes. ‘I…’ Words deserted her—his understanding was so surprising.
‘It’s fortunate there were no children,’ he murmured, studying her closed, pinched expression. ‘Otherwise you would never have been able to leave.’
‘No, no children,’ she whispered. The pulse in his corded wrist beat against her slender white hand. ‘The marriage was annulled after six months.’ Her knife-belt had slipped and she twisted it around, so that the weapon lay flat against the side of her hip. She threw him a wan, shy smile, trying to appear braver than she felt.
‘The marriage was annulled?’ He appeared incredulous, slanting his upper body towards her, seeking clarification. The light granite of his eyes deepened to obsidian.
‘Yes, what of it?’ Brianna eyed him suspiciously, shifting uncomfortably at the change in his tone. Through her gown, the loose weave of the blanket prickled her limbs.
‘The marriage was annulled…after six months?’
‘Yes.’
‘But a marriage has to be unconsummated for an annulment to take place.’
Face reddening, she began to pack his food back into the saddlebags, intent on busying herself, anything to avoid that searching gaze. She recalled those long, dreadful nights, afeard that Walter would come to her, would try to make love to her, and fail. Then he would hit her, bellowing accusation after accusation at her, telling her it was all her fault. She was too thin, too unattractive. But even as those blows rained down, her heart had sung with relief. Throughout it all, she had remained innocent.
‘Was it consummated?’ Giseux asked again. For some inexplicable reason, his heart began to lift, to soar with the knowledge that the maid before him had known no man.
Damp sweat slicked her palms. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me such things!’ Her whole body vibrated, hot flames of embarrassment searing through her as she began to brush the crumbs from the rug, busy, industrious.
‘Was it?’ The low baritone of his voice resonated through the hushed glade, a velvet command.
She lurched back on her heels, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirts. ‘No, never.’ As she traced the individual threads that formed the bright warp of the blanket with a frowning intensity, her flush deepened.
‘It’s not something to be ashamed of.’ Her eyes flicked up, sparking anger. ‘Ashamed? I am not ashamed, Giseux. I find it embarrassing to talk about such things with you, but ashamed—’ she shook her head defiantly ‘—nay, far from it.’ The pitch of her voice rose, husky, shaky with emotion. ‘I’m glad if you must know, relieved that he could never manage to have his filthy way with me…despite everything, despite all he did to me, I am still a virgin…Oh!’ She clapped one hand over her mouth, her ears ringing with the word; her tongue had blurted out her inner thoughts, speech tumbling forth in her anger, her rage—she had never meant to say such things to him.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he drawled. Was he smiling at her?
‘I’ve said too much.’ She scooped up her leather bag. The fine heather-coloured wool of his mother’s gown emphasised the slimness of her arms as she reached forwards. Her hood had fallen back, loose gathers around her pale and slender neck.
‘It doesn’t always have to be that way.’ Giseux rose, seizing the edge of the blanket to shake it out.
‘What doesn’t?’ Brianna responded irritably, rattled by her own admission in front of this formidable man. She had never spoken to anyone, anyone, about what had happened with Walter.
His eyes devoured her. ‘Love. Marriage. Don’t judge either of those things on the basis of your past experience.’
‘Oh,’ she snorted, her small frame bristling from her unwitting exposure before this man. ‘And you would know, would you?’ Yanking the blanket from his arms, she started folding it in short, brief jerks. The full meaning of her words slapped into her, and she gasped, pressing her palm to her mouth, remembering Nadia, his whispered words. ‘I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…’
He read the sorrow in her jewel-bright eyes, but he hadn’t even been thinking about Nadia. Only her whispered apology had jogged his memory. Aye, he knew about love, he had loved. A wistfulness wrapped around his heart, but it was muted, subdued, somehow. He had loved and lost, an experience he never, ever wished to repeat. The thought cleaved his chest as his gaze roved over Brianna’s neat figure, the flushed curve of her cheek. It was enough that he could protect her from Walter. He prayed it would be enough…for both their sakes.
Rain slewed down, swilling across the cobbles, churning down the ornate lead guttering as Giseux and Brianna clattered into the inner bailey of Walter’s castle. Steam rose from their horses’ flanks as grooms, heads ducked against the squalls of raindrops, sped out from the stables to clutch at the reins, to hold the animals steady. Leaden clouds pressed down atop the high curtain walls, trapping Brianna, closing her in; she felt like a prisoner once more. How many times had she stood at those narrow slit windows, staring out to the open countryside, beyond the walls, tracking the soaring flight of a buzzard, or the quick darts of a swallow? How she had longed to be with them, carried away on the warm rising air, far away from Walter, to freedom, to independence.
‘Brianna?’ Giseux had dismounted, was waiting to help her. His hair was flattened to his skull by the heavy rain, giving him a sleek, leonine appearance, emphasising the taut cut of his jaw, the tanned slash of his cheek. She took a gulp of air, a deep, steadying breath.
‘I’m ready.’ She accepted his hands on her waist as he swung her from the saddle, set her on the ground. Her dress and cloak stuck uncomfortably to her skin; she was much wetter than she thought. Giseux made to move towards the stone steps that led to the main door, but she checked him, placing one hand on his arm. ‘Giseux, I am not certain why you are here, but I, for one, am very glad that you are.’
His head whipped back in surprise at her solemn, unexpected words, face splitting into a grin. ‘So you finally accept that men might have their uses after all?’
Her mouth was tight-lipped, features stern. Within the alabaster purity of her face, her eyes glowed like limpid sapphires. ‘Not all men. Just you,’ she replied, her voice reserved, guarded. Head held high, she swept past him, damp hem dragging in the mire of the cobbles, and climbed the steps, slick wi
th raindrops. As she neared the top, the door cracked open and a wan, pallid face peered out.
‘Matilda!’ Brianna called out in greeting as she recognised the younger woman. Despite the travesty of her marriage, she had been close in age to Walter’s daughter; the two had been good friends. Matilda held both hands out to Brianna, smiled tentatively in greeting. Her glossy dark hair, like the pelt of a cat, was half-covered by a thick linen scarf, the ends crossed at the throat and then tied at the back of her neck.
Matilda gasped. ‘Brianna! It is you! I thought I would never see you again.’
‘As I you, Matilda. But Hugh…’
‘What about Hugh?’ Matilda’s voice appeared forced, unnatural.
Brianna frowned, a delicate line crinkling her forehead. ‘Hugh has returned from the crusade, Matilda. He’s been very ill, but he’s alive. He sent me to fetch you!’
Matilda teetered on the threshold, held a shaking hand up to her cheek. ‘Why…why would he do that?’
‘Because he wants to marry you, Matilda, he wants to do right by you and the child!’
Matilda staggered back into the dim hallway, almost as if punched by some invisible hand, her voice drifting back into the shadows. ‘It’s not possible…’
‘She’s had a shock.’ Giseux elbowed his way past Brianna, sweeping up the half-fainting girl to deposit her on a narrow wooden chair in the hall. He pushed her head down briskly between her knees. ‘She’ll feel better in a moment,’ he explained briskly, his expression unconcerned.
Her Battle-Scarred Knight Page 14
